Wardens
by plutospawn
Summary: With a Blight upon them, ragtag citizens of every race, class and make must put aside their differences and rally to the Wardens' cause. A retelling that intertwines all the origins. Aeducan, Amell, Brosca, Cousland, Mahariel, Tabris, Surana all included.
1. Chapter 1

When Duncan selected them all to be Grey Wardens, each recruit had thought of himself or herself as special. Individuals with strength of will to destroy archdemons, enders of Blights. They didn't realize until after the Battle of Ostagar the efficiency at which the Master Warden had conducted his affairs. Duncan had a talent for rallying ragtag citizens of every race, class and make to his cause. Even those unfit to bear the title of Warden were put to good use.

All three dwarves that accompanied the Grey Warden from Orzammar underwent the joining process. Of the three, Frannie Brosca and Faeron Aeducan returned as Grey Wardens. The process embittered the young Silfee Cousland, whose twin brother was hand-picked by Duncan while she herself was overlooked. Her brother, Edgar, would say that the betrayal at Highever had changed her. That the simple malice in her heart that too often bled from her mouth and forced her hand was bred from Arl Howe's treachery and nothing more. Whatever the cause, it was said that Silfee was tainted enough without the aid of darkspawn blood and was on that account, bypassed for the ritual.

Donal Amell accepted his rejection far more readily. His appearance at Ostagar had more to do with him begging and nagging the First Enchanter until he was allowed to venture to the battlefield under the watchful eye of his mentor, Wynne, on the premise that he was to record the events of the battle and nothing more. The cold and calculating Nema Surana was a far more suitable Warden than Donal could ever dream to be. Add to that the stoic and proud Rastaban Mahariel and it would seem that Duncan was building an unstoppable Warden army.

But then there was Adele Tabris. Her selection was an odd one. Nervous and flighty as a bird, she was the only one to survive the final joining ritual before the battle. Fresh from the Alienage in Denerim, she'd appeared quite shaken with the events that led to her joining with this strange and unseemly group of comrades. She and Frannie Brosca were the two assigned along with Duncan's protege Alistair, to light the torch in the Tower of Ishal.

Fran was the first to fall on the topmost floor of the tower. An arrow pierced through her cheap, leather armor and she gave slow, dazed eye-blinks at the shaft sticking out of her shoulder as her legs crumpled beneath her own weight. Alistair was next, though he managed to keep the darkspawn at bay for quite some time. Fran's quick subdual filled him with a frantic sort of energy. The ex-Templar brought his shield down with such a jaw-shattering ferocity and slashed his blade with such fervent madness that in the end it was a game of numbers more than skill. At Fran's side, Adele watched as the darkspawn swarmed and smothered her protector.

Adele was the only one alive and conscious to witness the great bird.

A roc, if she remembered the term correctly. Such fanciful things were only spoken of by her mother and her mother had been dead a long time. The beast came crashing through a massive stained glass window. She raised her forearm to her face to shield against the spray of glass and brick and mortar as the monstrous bird landed amidst the chaos. Without hesitation, it plucked up Alistair in one talon and Frannie in the other and then began to lift back up into the air. Adele did the only thing she could think of. She looped her arms around Frannie's waist and prayed both for a short journey and that the bird did not try to shake her off.

It was a strange thing to land back in the Korcari Wilds. The apostates, Flemeth and Morrigan threw themselves into saving her comrades and dismissed her, completely. Adele offered once to fetch something for the elder witch and Flemeth merely stared over her head, past her and requested it a second time from Morrigan. In the end, Adele spent the remainder of those critical hours scratching symbols into the earth with a stick just outside of Flemeth's hut.

She listened as first Alistair woke, then Fran; as Flemeth discussed with them their course of action and entrusted her daughter to them. Adele intersected their path before they left the Wilds and was met with a broad grin from Frannie and relief from Alistair. Their new companion said nothing, but the icy stare implied that Morrigan had intended to abandon the elf in the Korcari Wilds without a word of explanation to the other Wardens.

Morrigan's plans were dashed further when they found more survivors on the outskirts of the Wilds. Nema Surana and Faeron Aeducan were deadlocked on who was to be master. Silfee Cousland practiced her prettiest pout atop a rock while her brother frantically and all too inexpertly attempted to tend to Rastaban Mahariel's wounds. All but Silfee bore several bruises and cuts, but the Dalish elf sported a wide gash across his midsection from where he had lingered too close to a darkspawn ax. Rastaban had taken to feverishly willing away the onset of infection while Edgar looked on and offered plodding words of encouragement.

"Oh, lovely," was all that Morrigan would say.

Alistair immediately hurried over to Rastaban on the ground to aid Edgar in his ministrations. Edgar beamed ear-to-ear at his fellow Grey Warden and waved a hand caked with dried blood at Alistair. With a roll of her eyes, Silfee slid off the rock she was perched upon and strolled over to Morrigan.

She sighed. "How dull."

"Will he be alright?" Frannie asked with a nod toward Rastaban.

Silfee blinked, almost as if taken aback and focused her blue-green eyes on the dwarf. "I wish he'd just make up his mind, already," she said. "Get well or die, he's been carrying on like this for the better part of two days."

"And that one, there?" Morrigan gestured a finger at Edgar. "He believes he can talk the elf back to health?"

"Oh, Edgar?" Silfee sniffed. "Our older brother, Fergus, liked to tease that because we are twins, we were one whole person split. Unfortunately for Edgar, whereas he got the heart, I am in possession of the brain."

"I see," the witch said. Her tongue clicked against the back of her teeth. Then, without so much as a, "good day," Morrigan left the three women and joined Edgar's side, hovering over Rastaban.

"Well, that was tragically boring," Silfee commented. She exchanged a look with Frannie and Adele that could have spoken of more had Frannie determined that the young noblewoman had any depth. "Was it boring for you as well?"

Frannie raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"The battle." Silfee shook her head and all the numerous braids that adorned her dark brown hair bounced as if on cue. "I was hoping for a dragon at least. Something more interesting than hordes of darkspawn. It will be days before the scent of their blood gets washed from my hair."

"We were overwhelmed in the Tower of Ishal," Frannie muttered.

"Overwhelmed?" Silfee frowned. "Darkspawn aren't known to keep prisoners. Does this mean you had to retreat? Flee piteously from your position? Run away?"

Frannie had never seen someone smile with that much glee in their eyes. It was unsettling. In front of them, powerful currents of green energy were streaking out of Morrigan's arms and into Rastaban. Both witch and elf looked mildly irritated.

"We were rescued," Adele quietly offered.

"What?" Silfee turned her attentions to the elven woman that she had previously begun to assume was mute. "Speak up, I can hardly hear you."

"Well, there was this bird--"

Silfee lurched forward and grabbed Adele by the chin. "By the Maker, but you look an awful lot like Iona, Lady Landra's lady-in-waiting," she exclaimed. "I suppose your eyes are too big and a dull gray color instead of that pretty blue, but are you two related? She's dead now. My brother would say that he loved her too intensely for her to remain of this world, but I'm positive she was just another victim of Arl Howe's coup."

Adele attempted to stammer some sense into the flood of words that left Silfee's mouth. Adele was unsuccessful.

"Well, what about you?" Frannie asked. "How did all of you end up here? Alive?"

"Oh. That." Silfee unclamped her hand around Adele's jaw. "We were all in the thick of battle... myself, my brother, the dwarf and the elf. Not the pretty one, the one on the ground currently trying not to expire. Anyway, when Loghain quit the field, we all thought it best that we do so as well. It was a mess. The dwarf, Feh..." she snapped her fingers as she trailed off.

"Faeron," Frannie said.

"That's the one!" Silfee smiled again. "He said he actually saw the king get crushed to death by and ogre! And poor Duncan. That silly sot went off and lost his head."

Adele's mouth hung open in the shape of an, "o." Frannie wet her lips and tried to force the urge to rub the bridge of her nose to subside. Usually, being silent was a choice; it wasn't often that she could say that she was truly struck dumb. She blinked at Silfee. Silfee blinked back.

Adele cleared her throat. "The, uh, the mage," she said with a hand aimed at Nema, who had very nearly crammed her pointer finger down Faeron's throat by that point in time, "you didn't, um, explain how she got here."

Silfee waved a hand and snorted. "Oh, her. After what was left of the mages departed back for the Tower of Magi, she stayed back on account of being a Grey Warden. She and Faelon--"

"Faeron," Frannie ground out.

"Yes. Well, they apparently can't decide who is to be in charge." Silfee tugged at one of her braids absently. "Somehow, they managed to agree that we should resupply at a village called Loethering, but are now bickering over which allies to seek out first. It's all very tiresome."

Tiresome, indeed. "I have a headache," Frannie announced before she stalked over toward the makeshift medical team still surrounding Rastaban. By this time the Dalish elf was in a sitting position, propped up against a tree trunk. Morrigan's eyes screamed murder as Alistair secured the last bit of bandage around their companion's waist and said something that sent Edgar guffawing merrily. Rastaban's expression twisted to match Morrigan's in terms of sourness.

Adele stood, frozen awkwardly, staring at Silfee. She picked a discreet spot slightly above the other woman's right eyebrow to gaze at while any words she could possibly use to start a conversation with began to form a hard lump at the base of her throat. As a shining example of human nobility, Silfee became bored and forgot about the elven woman in record time. If she had been any more invisible, Silfee would have walked through Adele on her way back to the others.


	2. Chapter 2

"My goodness, was Nan ever cross with me!" Edgar's throaty laugh interrupted the monotony of travel yet again. Ferelden was a large expanse of blue sky peppered with the scent of fresh sweat and Andraste's grace. "And there was this other time--"

"Will you silence yourself, please?" Morrigan hissed. "I for one would prefer that we not announce ourselves to any nearby bandits or darkspawn."

"Oh, come off it," Alistair clucked as he slung an arm around Edgar's shoulder. "Edgar was just getting to the good part, weren't you Edgar?"

Edgar shrugged. "Well, I just thought it was funny. Something to lighten the mood." He glanced over at Morrigan. "You're a lot like my Nan, in a way."

Alistair snickered, "Old and wrinkly."

"Strict," Edgar said. "Very demanding. She liked things in a very specific way. She helped raise me and she didn't make it out of Highever when... I miss her, is all."

Morrigan sighed. "Why is my engaging you in conversation always akin to repeatedly kicking a puppy?" She glared at the two men. "Stop it. I do not like it."

Up until that point, Faeron had kept his eyes on the dirt road ahead of them. Focused on his stiff and precise march, he worked to tune out those less trained in war than he. Had he been back in Orzammar and had this been a tunnel in the deep roads as opposed to a scenic countryside trail, he would have said let them be loud. Seasoned dwarven warriors knew that the best lesson was experience. Let the braying fools be torn apart by giant spiders or deep stalkers or genlocks, those left alive in the aftermath would carry on quieter and wiser.

"I never would have thought that one of my obligations as Grey Warden was babysitter," he muttered under his breath.

"End it," Nema whispered back. "Or I will."

Faeron snorted at her, but strode over to Alistair and Edgar. There was something about Nema Surana that made him angry. Irrationally so. She was smart and strong-willed and viciously powerful in her own right. But it was that matter-of-fact way she viewed the world in blacks and whites that set Faeron off. The tone of voice she used when she explained something, the certain way that she held her nose just marginally higher than anyone else's. It didn't matter if whatever course of action she wanted to take was logically the best route or that in any other universe he would have agreed with her, just the way she said it made Faeron want to do exactly the opposite, stab her eyes out with heated needles and urinate on her ancestors all in one go.

He crossed his arms. "Morrigan's right."

That comment alone made both men jerk to a startling halt. Alistair looked the more rational of the two with a single eyebrow raised, while Edgar was in the throes of grieving for his Nan, his mouth twisted into a frown and his blue-green eyes staring piteously at Faeron. The dwarf sighed.

"We are a stone's throw away from Loethering," Faeron said. "Once we are there, we'll get a room at the inn and there we can talk and laugh and relax. For now, let's hold our tongues and not do anything that might invite a fight. Okay?"

Edgar and Alistair exchanged a look before they looked back to Faeron and nodded their heads like naughty children. The day had dragged on much too long, already.

While the sun bore down upon the backs of their necks, the group trudged onward. They all itched after the slaughter at Ostagar in a way that couldn't be explained away with words. The Cousland woman prattled away aimlessly at the casteless Brosca wench so incessantly that Faeron's mind began to go numb. He looked away. He wasn't sure how he felt about being saved, not only by a group of Grey Wardens, but by a casteless girl with a bow in the deep roads. She hadn't sneered about it, hadn't rubbed it in his face, just offered him a quick nod when she was certain they had all escaped harm. Duncan had seen something important in the girl, he had to respect that even if it made his stomach turn.

He had to wonder, though, if her eyes stung as much as his under the harsh sunlight. If she felt as vulnerable and naked as he without the walls, the ceilings, nothing but sky and light and an air that the humans and elves described as "clean" and "crisp." It was nothing he would be willing to discuss; he needed to lead by example, not by childish curiosities.

"Chester!"

Faeron hadn't known that Edgar's voice could entertain such a high pitch. As he fumbled for his sword he noticed that Rastaban already had his daggers out and trained on the enormous beast galloping headlong toward the party. Edgar was dashing forward to meet the mabari warhound with an intensity that most men reserved for their lovers.

"Ser Chester von Woofington III!" Edgar exclaimed over and over. The full-grown dog leapt into the air and into his master's arms. "You're here! You're here! I thought I'd lost you!" Edgar staggered beneath the weight of the dog he was cradling and fell flat on his backside. The dog proceeded to cover his master's face with wet, slobbery kisses while Edgar laughed.

"Does this mean we are going to have this mangy beast follow us around?" Morrigan sniffed. "Wonderful."

Alistair gasped with mock horror. "He's not Mangy!"

"Forever and ever!" Edgar was telling his pet adoringly. "I will never lose you again."

"The third?" Nema said flatly. "You mean to tell me there are two more of these marauding the countryside?"

Silfee Cousland's tinkling laughter sent the elf's eyebrow arching up. Faeron wasn't sure yet if that subtle movement meant surprise or irritation. "Oh, sweet Maker, no," Silfee said. "Edgar simply felt that the dog was too noble a beast to have a name as undignified as 'Chester.' So he invented the longer title."

He decided the eyebrow meant irritation. Nema faced Silfee with a long, hard look, then she turned around without a word and stalked to the front of the party.

Chester proved himself to be a valuable asset. His keen senses helped tip the party off to nearby darkspawn as well as bandits and wild animals. Fiercely loyal to his master, Edgar, Chester also began to take a liking to Adele Tabris. Often, if the dog was not with his master, he would be found curled up by the elf's bedroll. Despite the dog's habit to occasionally run off and bury someone's undergarments, Faeron was pleased to have him at their sides. He was a capable and focused warrior who didn't eat as much as Alistair and most importantly, Chester lacked the ability to talk.

By the time they had left Loethering, they had added the Chantry girl, Leliana and a qunari warrior to their list of stragglers. On the whole, it seemed a successful venture, what with the deal Faeron had brokered with the merchant Bodhan and his son, Sandal. Aside from some bandits and the virtue of a farmer's daughter whom Edgar insisted that he would love forever, there were no serious casualties.

"So I said to him, 'Tell Loghain that the Wardens know what really happened,'" Edgar said, a broad grin across his face. He leaned in forward and let the campfire warm him.

"So I saw," Leliana replied. "But what really happened? What is it that the Wardens know about that Teryn Loghain would like to remain secret?"

"Well... you know."

"I do not." She smiled and rested a hand on his thigh. "I was not at Ostagar like you. I would like to hear what happened."

Nema Surana walked over to the overturned log Faeron was resting on and sat primly, her back stiff. She picked up a stick and poked at the fire. She didn't look at him.

"Where do you think we should travel first?" she asked.

Faeron sighed. "Alistair had been insisting that we speak with Arl Eamon at Redcliffe, first."

"If I wanted to know what Alistair thought, I would have asked Alistair," Nema said. "Where do you think we should travel first?"

He looked over at her and she continued to stare at the fire. "Honestly? I would like to go directly to Orzammar."

"Why?"

"Why?" Faeron paused. "I have... unfinished business there."

Nema turned to look at him, then. Her eyes narrowed. "Then we will go to the Tower of Magi, first."

"Excuse me?" He wrenched the stick from her hand and tossed it into the fire. Little puffs of ash floated up into the air. "Did I hear this right? Did you ask me what I wanted only so you could deny me?"

It was the first time he'd seen Nema smile. A quick flash of white teeth and then nothing. "It would be a shame to lose you so quickly to your unfinished business," she said. "The Tower of Magi is along the way to Orzammar. I don't foresee us encountering any trouble there, but if we do, I want you there. Your race has a natural resistance to magic, correct?"

"Use me as a shield, then," Faeron snorted. "I'm used to being buttered up with pleasantries first before being treated as a pawn."

"Don't be stupid," she replied. "We stop quickly to uphold our alliance with the mages and then you have my word that we will travel directly to Orzammar afterward. Agreed?"

He nodded and held out his hand. "Aye."

"Feel free to help us or run off and get yourself killed over your unfinished business." Nema took his hand in her own and gave it a firm shake. "But don't even think about interfering with the Wardens securing dwarven aid against the Blight. If it comes to that, I swear I will end you myself."

Faeron had already begun to tune her out in favor of the flames licking at the ashen remains of a branch. Dealing with Nema always felt too similar to consorting with demons for his liking. Her hand was cold, but the fire was warm.


	3. Chapter 3

"I will string up Arl Rendon Howe by his entrails," Silfee was saying. The fading daylight cut strange shadows across her face. "Decorate a modest sitting room with his insides. Or perhaps the entry hall to our castle. That way every visitor who arrives will see and know. I will make him pay with every last breath for what he's done to my family."

She had a face like a doll and a voice like honey. There was a long pause from everyone around the campfire save for Edgar's drunken and hiccuped weeping. Their lamb stew had started to grow cold and dusk glistened on the lapping waves of Lake Calenhad. Chester rolled on the shoreline and then relieved himself on one of the boats.

"You speak with such passion," Leliana murmured. Her bowl of stew was to her side and long forgotten to everyone but Chester. "A venom that I have never heard in your voice up until now."

"I just wished we could have saved Mother." Edgar sniffed and rubbed at his face. "Or Oren. I was supposed to teach him how to fight dragons. With our swords of truthiness."

Their newest companion claimed to have been a bard before a Chantry girl. So in an attempt to learn more of her fellow travelers, Leliana would regale them with songs and stories both old and new. She only now asked the same of her friends once they arrived at the docks too late in the day to make the ferry across the lake to the Tower. Hesitant initially, everyone slowly began to open up first with tales of being raised by magical dogs and eventually, with the truth.

"It would seem that everyone has faced insurmountable hardships," Leliana said. Her gaze fell to Nema. "How about you?"

The mage's nose twitched and she stared off at the lake, as if she could see the Tower through all the dark and all the distance. "I was hand-picked by the First Enchanter to be recruited for the Grey Wardens."

The bard leaned forward, to absorb it all, but nothing else followed. Leliana tilted her head to one side. "And?"

"That's all," Nema said.

They stared at each other a moment. Then, without missing a beat, Leliana broke into a smile. "So simple. So straightforward. Much like you."

"I think I'd like to rescind my origins," Alistair declared. He slung his arm over his knee and took a long pull from his mug. "Crime lords and proving grounds, political intrigue and betrayal... it makes being raised by dogs just too mundane."

Chester barked.

"Come now, I never meant that," Alistair snorted. "Anyway, it's true."

The dog cocked his head at the ex-Templar before he curled up at his master's feet.

"Rastaban," Leliana said. "How is it that you came to leave your people?"

The Dalish elf looked away from the others and towards the cold ground. His hands worked mechanically on the blade he was sharpening. "There was a mirror," he said. "And a fool who was told not to touch it. He touched it."

Silfee smirked. "So you touched a mirror, then? Did you break it?"

His light green eyes shot up. "I never said I touched it."

"Well, did you break it?" Silfee pressed.

"Duncan did." His smooth voice was betrayed by the hard set of his jaw. "After I was tainted by the object."

"Tainted?" Her lower lip jutted out as she thought. "Like a disease? Lady Clarabelle was diseased once. Or at least, rumored to be so. All the eligible men treated her ghastly after I told them and refused to court her, which was a shame, because she was quite comely."

It was hard to tell by the harsh glow of the campfire if his face darkened. His voice kept perfectly smooth. "One day your hair will go gray and your skin will sag and yet your outward appearance will still pale in comparison to how hideous your soul is."

Silfee laughed.

"I think I'm beginning to like this one," Alistair muttered at Frannie. The dwarf just sighed and shook her head.

"Okay, well, this wasn't the path I had anticipated the evening would take..." Leliana scanned the group surrounding the fire. "Faeron! You've been awfully quiet tonight. Will you tell us how you arrived at Ostagar with Duncan?"

Faeron stirred from the mug of ale he was contemplating. He pressed his beard down with one hand and looked over at Frannie. Shadows danced in the deep furrows of his brow as she shrugged back at his silent plea.

"There's nothing to tell," he said finally.

"We're among friends, yes..?" Leliana began.

"I grew up in the Alienage in Denerim," Adele said suddenly. The words came out in an airy gasp and she looked nearly as shocked as everyone else that she said anything at all. "And I know it's bad there and I know everyone acts like they've rescued me from it, but it was my home. I'm... I mean... it was home."

"I hear city elves behave like cattle," Silfee mused.

"I hear Dalish elves poop in the woods," Edgar replied.

Adele wrung her hands and continued. "It was just me and my father, Cyrion and--"

"Your mother left you both?" Silfee asked.

Adele gaped. "Excuse me?"

Silfee waved a hand. "It was just you and your father. You didn't just spawn from a cabbage patch, you must have had a mother, sometime. Did she abandon you both?"

"That was really rude," Frannie cut in over Adele's stammering.

"I just wanted more information," Silfee said. "We are trying to learn about each other, after all."

"Will you just let her tell her story?" Frannie snapped.

Silfee rolled her eyes and started to play with her hair.

"Dead," Adele said. Her cheeks had flushed a deep scarlet as she stared at her fidgeting fingers. "Mother was always very outspoken. I suppose she just... spoke a little too much for the city guards' liking one day. That was years ago."

"I've always heard the Alienage was a rough place," Alistair said. "No child deserves to grow up there."

Adele shrugged. "I did."

"Like Dust Town?" Frannie asked.

"I suppose," Alistair replied.

Silfee yawned and patted down Chester's side. He gave a soft whine as she pushed him onto his side and snuggled into his belly like a makeshift pillow.

"My cousin, Soris, and I were supposed to get married." Adele paused and then her eyes shot open wide and the tips of her ears turned red. "Not to each other, I mean! Just that, well, the weddings were supposed to happen side by side on the same day."

Alistair chuckled. "Oh? I didn't know you were spoken for."

"I am." Her hand jerked up stiffly and she waggled her ring finger. The crude little band barely glinted before her hand shot back down to her side. "Well, sort of. Before we could exchange vows the men came and then... I..." With all eyes on her, Adele's shoulders slumped. "Duncan conscripted me to save me from execution," she finished quietly.

"I don't understand," Leliana said.

"Right," Alistair drawled. "Now, I've been told that marriage will make you want to kill yourself, but I never heard that the wedding itself was grounds for execution."

"Well, I..." Adele became fascinated with her knees. "It was a mistake to bring it up, is all. I'm sorry."

"Oh, what? Is it because we're not interested enough?" Silfee closed her eyes and idly stroked a hand against Chester's flank. "I've shown you mine; now you show me yours, that's the way it goes, isn't it? Just get on with it."

"I just..." Adele pressed her lips into a thin line and forced herself to look up. "I did a bad thing to help good people, I guess. I didn't want to, but Vaughan, he... I just, well... I don't think there was any other way."

"I knew a Bann Vaughan," Silfee said, stifling another yawn with the back of her hand. "He came onto me and I would have none of it."

"Oh, he did not," Edgar slurred as he slumped over into the dirt next to Chester.

"He did so," Silfee insisted. "The Arl of Denerim's son, Vaughan. It was five years back during the king's coronation, so that made us what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Anyway, he was telling me how beautiful I was and how he'd like to get to know me privately. I slid up close to him, gripped his codpiece as hard as I could with one hand and suggested that he drop some coin on a whore because no sensible woman would ever bother with his company."

Edgar laughed and raised a finger at nothing in particular. "And then you slept with his cousin, Arl of--"

"Hush, Edgar."

Adele had returned to her original quiet. Frannie pushed herself up off the ground and went to the elf. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you to your tent."

Adele nodded and allowed the other woman to help her to her feet. As they walked past the their friends on the way to the tent, Faeron caught Frannie by her wrist. Being little more than brown eyes obscured by hair and beard in the darkness it was hard to tell his exact thoughts as he regarded her.

"Thank you," Faeron said. "For staying silent. You didn't have to."

"It was your story to tell," Frannie replied. "Your Majesty."

His grip on her wrist tightened. "Please. Don't call me that anymore."

Frannie nodded. "It's time for bed." She gently tugged her arm away from him and placed her hands on Adele's shoulders. Adele let Frannie guide her to her tent and both women settled down on their bedrolls and bid each other goodnight.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, I'm so glad you could make it! Nema, I've missed you. I wish you'd told me you were on your way, I would have tried to have some cakes out, put on some tea, but as you can see we're a little put out at the moment."

Nema glared at her fellow mage, but said nothing. Donal Amell continued to casually flip through an old tome while children huddled in a corner and wept.

"I thought you said that you didn't expect trouble here," Faeron muttered. Nema ignored him.

The Tower of Magi was in shambles. Walls crumbling, windows shattered, beams splintered, books strewn about and amidst it all, Donal Amell stood propped against a wall with his thin, crooked nose and skin that had never seen daylight, so perfectly at home with his contempt. He smoothed a shock of orange hair back away from his eyes, wet his pointer finger on his tongue and went back to his reading.

Nema could kill him.

When the doors to the Apprentice Quarters burst open, erupting in a swarm of apprentices surrounding Wynne, Nema really wished Donal had been serious about the tea. Powerful magic surged out of Wynne's very essence as she made quick work of the demon on her heels. The old mage quickly erected a barrier across the door and then, wiping sweat from her brow, took a moment to catch her breath.

"What was that?" Frannie asked.

"Rage demon," Donal said, without even looking up from his book. "Nasty, ornery fellows."

"Wynne." Nema walked over to the old woman, her chin raised.

"Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where I stand," Wynne said, back hunched over, her knuckles turning white around her staff.

"I'm not here to fight." Nema raised an eyebrow. "It's good to see you alive and able. We were told to expect the worst, which is why I brought with me the best-suited companions I had." She extended a hand to the group directly behind her. Of everyone that had followed them to Lake Calenhad, Morrigan, Alistair, Frannie and Faeron had specific skills that would increase their survivability in a tower filled with mages gone awry. Frannie offered Wynne a smile; Alistair waved.

Wynne's grip loosened around her staff, but she didn't set it aside. "I will accept that, for now," she said. "But what are you doing here, then?"

Nema bore her irritation plainly on her face, but she kept her hands passively at her sides. "Don't worry, the Right of Annulment hasn't arrived yet."

Wynne let her staff drop. "They sent for it, then?"

Donal's book hit the floor with a thud. Nema nodded.

"They abandoned us to our fate," Wynne murmured. "If they invoke the Right, we will not be able to stand against them."

"I do not see why we help these fool mages," Morrigan announced to no one in particular. Her pale eyes scanned the small crowd of frightened children and anxious and exhausted mages. "I say leave them to this fate that they'd so readily accept."

Donal's lips thinned. "Right. I'll remember that the next time I see you neck-deep in a bad way. Best leave you to your fate."

"Best leave me be, period," Morrigan replied. "It would be insulting if I required the aid of a gelding."

Frannie stepped forward. "Sounds like we've got some abominations to kill."

As Wynne dispelled her barrier, Donal bent over and collected his book from the floor. He dusted it off and scowled at the blood stain on the front cover before he walked over to one of the children cowering by one of the surviving mages. He put a knuckle under the young girl's chin to lift her face up and spoke a few kind words quietly and with a smirk. The child nodded and Donal tucked the book under her arm, wiped some tears and snot from her face with the hem of his robe and followed after Nema.

"Alright," he said. "I'm coming.

Nema didn't even grant him a glance. "No."

"Alright, then, first thing I think we..." Donal blinked a few times as his mind caught up. "Horse shit! I'm not staying in the Apprentice Quarters; too many crying children."

"Donal, dear, I would appreciate your help," Wynne said as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Particularly away from the young ones who might be influenced by some of the phrases you choose to use."

His ears flushed pink. "Uh, right. Thanks, Wynne."

The Tower of Magi could be a dangerous place in the best of circumstances. There had been times when nose-deep in a book, a young Donal had wandered into an apprentice training session and had looked up just in time to lose his eyebrows. Despite the lack of sportsmanship that his fellow mages displayed with seeing who could distract Donal enough so they could collect on the bet of whether he'd get scorched, frozen or electrocuted by a careless apprentice, it was usually Donal himself that got disciplined. It didn't matter that he had exit wounds on the soles of his feet where the electricity had grounded or that his hair defied gravity, it was more that he thought it acceptable to call a senior enchanter an, "insolent devourer of whores" in front of a class of twelve-year-olds before he passed out from his injuries.

Donal didn't mind the constant punishment. He was usually tasked with tending to the massive library. Categorizing and alphabetizing the tomes, discarding old volumes when newer ones arrived, repairing the ones that were too valuable to lose. Rumor had it the First Enchanter was amused by the frivolous, trivial knowledge that Donal kept pouring into his brain. He put aside the literature on Tower law as soon as he realized in was perfectly acceptable and allowable for him to take on a lover, should any willing partner ever appear, in favor of writings about failed spellcraft, such as trying to establish a psychic link with cattle or a grizzly bear or writings about why it's assumed that Tevinter's prefer the color purple to yellow.

Now, with cracked and oozing sacs of flesh clinging to the walls of the Tower, it was hard for him to not get disgusted. He wondered if anyone would be able to erase these images of their home bastardized from their minds long enough to sleep at night. He stumbled over a leg-- rather, half a leg, in the hallway and bumped into Alistair. It would be a damn shame if the library's copy of the Qun was lost. The religious text was downright hysterical if one replaced the names of all the qunari gods with the word, "breasts."

"We are not here to sight-see." Nema glared at him. "Stop craning your neck."

"I came because I wanted to help," Donal said.

Nema shook her head. "You came because you were curious about who that corpse on the ground was."

"I am not curious." Donal's nostrils flared and he turned his head away from the body. "I know that's Amelia. Because I, you know, talk to people on occasion as opposed to some other holier-than-thou sorts."

Frannie interrupted them. "Is that a..?"

"Demon?" Morrigan said. "Yes."

Morrigan and Frannie fell back with their ranged attacks while Faeron and Alistair charged at it head on. The creature looked to be a thing of molten lava and hatred, but their shields pushed it back and it bled like any other living being. It left a smear of grizzle and scorched paneling on the wall that the men pummeled it into. Ice left Nema's fingertips and the demon fell to a barrage of arrows, bone and shield and winter.

"Back away from it," Donal said. "Trust me."

Alistair pulled Faeron away just as the demon's remains incinerated in a fiery explosion.

Donal shook his head. "Happens every time. How expensive were those carpets, again?"

"Is anyone hurt?" Wynne asked.

One by one, they all shook their heads. Nema was already pushing forward.

"So." Alistair slowed his normal pace to fall into step with Donal. "If it's not inappropriate for me to ask, how did you know that the dead mage back there was your friend Amelia? She was face down."

"Yes," Donal replied. "But she was arse up, you see."

Alistair's eyes widened slightly. "Ahh."

"Anyway, don't feel bad," Donal continued. "It wasn't like she was a friend. More like something to be admired from afar. Mostly because she told me to stay that far away."

In retrospect, maybe Donal or one of the other mages experienced with Fade demons should have pointed out the dangers. Then again, if they had, everyone else may have simply sat back and waited for the Right of Annulment to arrive. So they continued to hack and slash their way through the Tower of Magi with preposterous side chitchat like, "My! I never expected abominations to be so easy to kill!" Donal kept an internal tally of all the intricate latticework that was smashed, tapestries that were ruined or merely compromised and furniture in need or repair or replacing as they traveled up the many floors of the Tower.

All the while, demons continued to attack. And when they thought they were free of demons, then came the blood mages. Alistair seemed deeply perturbed by the possessed Templars, but Faeron and Nema struck down all of their attackers without hesitation. With the will to tune out such rabid emotions as desire and rage, they left themselves vulnerable to Sloth. Sloth didn't spring from floor tiles to rip them asunder or promise them their most treasured wants. The demon faced them with such boredom and apathy that as they all fell into a life-threatening slumber, first Faeron and then Alistair, all Donal could do was utter the word, "Shit," as he realized briefly that he was the last one standing.

Donal did not stand for long. He fell headlong to join his friends on the ground. He was asleep even before his face landed on Frannie's breast. 


	5. Chapter 5

Frannie stood, straddling Duncan's corpse. Strange. Duncan was a man to whom she owed so much, the man who saved her life and yet she'd felt more guilt over killing Beraht. The Fade did odd things to a body.

Somehow, she doubted what she was seeing was really Weisshaupt. It looked too dwarven in make with its heavy stones and encased ceiling overhead and the lack of windows. Frannie thought it was beautiful, in a way. It was certainly comfortable and homey. Maybe it was the smell; dirt, metal and stone dust.

Duncan was dead. Duncan was dead before this strange dream. When she woke, everyone else would confirm that fact and Frannie would not be at fault for what occurred here. Her head was swimming on the edge of absurd. She needed to wash her face in the fountain that had randomly appeared in front of her just beyond Duncan's body.

The fountain made her skin tingle. It made her bones feel warm. Frannie felt everything fade to blackness, which was an odd thing considering that she had to be asleep already in order to be dreaming. She wondered if she could do that. If she could go to sleep in a dream. It seemed a little repetitive.

When Frannie came to and could reestablish where her eyes were and where they were located on her body, she realized she wasn't alone. Nema was there with what looked to be a cup of tea next to a man with dark and matted hair. The landscape was a fractured, purple island and Frannie was lost.

"A mouse?" the man said. He sank to the ground and knotted his hands in his hair.

"A mouse," Nema said. Her pinky pointed out rigidly as she sipped at her tea.

Frannie hurried over to them, half expecting them to disappear before she reached their sides. They didn't. "How do we get out of here?" she asked.

The man looked up at her, bleary-eyed. "There's more of you? Maybe there is hope, after all."

Nema gestured to her and kneeled down on the unnatural surface of shiny black and silver rocks. "There are several minor demons that protect sloth, each on their own island." As the mage talked, she ran her finger across the ground. The magic of the Fade coupled with Nema's own will caused deep grooves of a makeshift diagram to appear beneath her finger. "Everyone else must be trapped here, as well. You find the others, I will face the demons."

Frannie shook her head. "We should stick together," she said. "You'll need help against those demons. You'll have a better chance with me."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Frannie demanded. "Apart we're weaker and we do no one any good by getting killed."

"We're all trapped in dreams," Nema said. She stood and abandoned her diagram. "Yours felt real, didn't it? With each passing second the demon's delusion is more secure in your mind until it's impossible to extract you from it. You need to release everyone from those dreams and as quickly as possible."

"Then we free everyone, first," Frannie said.

"Likewise Sloth and all the demons protecting Sloth are feeding on our corporeal forms as we speak." Nema brushed herself off with one hand and flicked her tea away with the other. The cup vanished as soon as it left her hand. "There's no point in freeing everyone from their fantasies if their bodies are dead husks by the time we do so." She turned and stared at Frannie with her almond-shaped eyes. "So. You find the others, I will face the demons."

Frannie gave a weary nod of her head. With that, a staff materialized into Nema's hands and she disappeared into a cloud of purple mist. Frannie sighed.

"I hope she knows what she's doing," the man murmured.

"She thinks she does, at any rate," Frannie grumbled.

"Those demons will consort with you, talk," he said. "They offer you all kinds of powers, abilities, desires. But they always exact a price for it. May she be wise enough to refuse."

"I think..." that she had little idea as to who that woman she just let frolick off into the Fade to play with demons was. "...I need to find my friends."

Whatever Nema was doing without her seemed to change the landscape gradually. Doorways appeared or increased in size, pathways became more visible. There were things that Frannie began to see when she stared directly at them as opposed to just seeing them in her periphery. She found Faeron, first. All she had to do was follow the smells and sounds of Orzammar.

It was a quieter dream than Frannie had anticipated for the warrior prince. There was a beautiful woman with glossy black hair wound in intricate braids humming softly as she stirred the pot that dangled over a cooking fire. The beadwork and embroidery sewn into her pastel gown were far too elaborate for any servant.

From his chair, Faeron laughed. He actually laughed. "Will you leave that alone and let the cooks earn their pay?"

"But Gorim will be here for supper and I know what he likes," the woman replied. Still, she set the ladle aside and strolled over to him. She scooped up the small, swaddled bundle on his belly and sat in his lap. "All the deshyrs say I haven't a thought in my pretty, little head. That you married me for looks alone."

"All the deshyrs," Faeron said, "are wrong."

"So you do not think me attractive enough to marry based on looks alone?" His wife giggled and laid the babe on top of his chest. "Trian will be a strong warrior. Like his daddy. But with a little luck, he won't place his foot in his own mouth nearly so often."

Frannie cleared her throat. "Faeron."

The woman jerked her head up and coal black eyes regarded Frannie shrewdly. "Faeron, it's a brand."

"Faeron," Frannie said. "We need to go."

Faeron edged his wife off his lap and stood up. "I don't know you. You need to leave."

"I don't want her to look at our baby," his wife insisted cradling the child to her breast.

"Think hard, Faeron," Frannie said. She could feel her muscles tense up, wanting to reach for her weapons, but she forced her hands out in front of her passively. "You don't belong here. This is all wrong."

"She could be sent here to assassinate us!" His wife was falling into hysterics.

"Assassinate who?" Frannie demanded. "You don't exist! Faeron, who is this woman?"

Faeron reached for his sword. "Don't be ridiculous, this is my wife. Her name is... her name..."

"You know my name," his wife snapped. "Now kill this casteless whore before she murders our baby!"

"Your name," Faeron muttered. "Why didn't tell me your name?" He rubbed at his brow.

"You coward," his wife sneered. "You eunuch! I shall kill her myself!" And with that, the woman pitched the infant straight at Frannie.

Frannie planned to tell Faeron that what she did was instinctive. Later. His sword dropped to his feet and his knees went slack. Seeing that, Frannie knew she'd never be able to tell him the truth. That his baby had no face. Only a jaw open wide with rows of razor-sharp teeth. That Frannie wanted to kill it as soon as it came after her because it sickened and terrified her.

The demon woman took that as an opportunity to flank her. Frannie realized too late; bony fingers were wrapping around her throat. She twisted just as teeth sank deep into her shoulder. Frannie fell over, fumbling for the dagger in her boot.

"Faeron!" An elbow to the temple and a sucker punch to the kidney. "Your Majesty!" Frannie didn't know what she was screaming, anymore. Only that her muscles burned and her wounds stung and that damned demon had the tenacity of a deep stalker. "Prince Faeron, fight like an Aeducan!"

Fran's last words were punctuated by a warm, wet spray across her face. Demons, it would seem, bled like anyone else. She wiped the stickiness from her nose and cheek and tried to ignore precisely how a dwarven longsword could mangle a body if someone skilled enough decided to misuse it. Frannie kicked the demon off of her and rubbed at the scratchs along her throat.

"I asked you to not call me that," Faeron said quietly. He wiped his sword off on his wife's dress. "I'm as much an Aeducan as you are. That title is dead."

Frannie shrugged. "Only as dead as you want it, I guess."

He grimaced. "As long as Aeducans are practitioners of fratricide, the line deserves to die. I don't expect you to understand."

"Suppose not," she said. "Then again, you're talking to me way more than I expected you to."

"You know the stone. The others do not." Faeron spoke with transluscent lips. The landscape of the Fade seeped through his body gently at first and then with an overpowering intensity. His form dissipated into nothingness and left her alone. Frannie did the only other thing she knew how to, she continued on.


	6. Chapter 6

"Your hair is so beautiful," Leliana said as she tried to gently pull a brush through the long, tangled mess. Adele's head still lurched back with every brush stroke. "The color of cornsilk. It would glisten beneath the sunlight if you'd only brush it."

"I never really thought about it," Adele murmured.

Dawn trickled in from the east of Lake Calenhad and already their camp was abuzz with life. Edgar occupied himself with interacting with the locals whose main source of income was the lakeside inn, The Spoiled Princess. One serving girl in particular, he followed around as if he had never seen a woman before. She seemed to enjoy the attention, her father, however, did not.

Silfee spent her time bickering with Rastaban. She seemed to think that they would be stuck at this location for a while and therefore, deserved a bedroom at the inn. Much to her dismay, Rastaban was unmoved by her persuasive displays of cleavage and begging. The qunari, Sten, stood on the shore as if to dare the waves of the lake to swallow him whole. No one had seen Chester in quite some time.

Leliana continued to force her way through Adele's hair. "I do not understand why you don't take better care of yourself," she said. "Once we smooth this down, perhaps we can attach a ribbon or something else to keep it out of your face."

"You really don't have to bother..."

"I know I don't." A warmth always seemed to radiate out when Leliana smiled. "But I want to, that's what makes it special. Maybe a nice blue ribbon, you think? Or would you prefer pink?"

Adele blinked. "Green. Maybe." It was hard to explain. All the attention Leliana doted on her made her belly feel warm. But the quick flutterings in Adele's chest was a bad thing. Years of safeguarding were being unraveled. "My hair's too thin."

"So perhaps we should style it?" Leliana asked. "Braid it and pull it up?"

"No, I..." Adele shrugged. "I like it down."

With her hair down, sometimes Adele would be mistaken for a human girl, instead of the elven woman she was. If she took the time to untangle and brush her hair, it would fall straight and her ears would poke through and upset the illusion. Leliana didn't know. She didn't realize the advantages of appearing human.

Chester's bark offered her a reprieve from Leliana's brush. The mabari was furiously wagging that stump of a tail as he dragged something clamped in his jaws. Bone and from an enormous creature at that. It wasn't that Chester had found a bone or that there was still gristle attached, it was the shredded bits of leather that still clung to it that was unsettling. Leather that looked a lot like the remains of some breeches.

Chester barked again and dropped it in Adele's lap. He rolled around on the grass and looked exceptionally pleased with himself.

"I don't... Chester..?"

Leliana set the brush down and picked up the bone with both hands. She laid it along the length of her thigh. "This is too big to be human," she murmured.

"So it's an animal?" Adele asked.

Chester would not quiet down. The dog ran in circles around them, barking and yipping.

Leliana chewed on her bottom lip. "I don't think so."

"Where did you find that?" For a big man, Sten moved both silently and deftly. The only thing that gave him away was the imposing shadow that his body created.

Leliana held the bone up to him and it matched the size of his thigh almost perfectly. Sten snatched the qunari femur away from her.

"The dog discovered it," Leliana said.

Sten hovered over the dog and bared his teeth. "Where?"

Chester bowed his head and growled.

Sten growled back. "Take me."

And with that, the mabari took off in a full canter toward the property beside The Spoiled Princess. Sten raced after him. Adele looked to Leliana before the two women followed suit.

They followed Chester to a tidy, little clearing. Bushes were cleared away for the skeletal remains of a campfire and there were some painful gashes in the soil that could have been caused by swords or claws. They certainly weren't caused by the dirty vagabond who was being cornered into a tree stump by Chester's bared teeth.

"Hey! Hey, oh, easy there..." The man had his hands raised in surrender to the dog. He glanced over and sized up his gathering onlookers and finally settling on Leliana, he called over, "Hey you! Call off your dog, now! Please? I ain't done nothing wrong!"

"You should not be afraid of the dog," Sten said.

The man gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "You'll excuse me if I don't take proper relief from that." His eyes were still frozen on Chester, who had yet to back down.

Sten's oversized hand clamped down on the scruff of the man's neck and hoisted him into the air. The qunari's violet eyes narrowed as he glared murder at the man who he was now holding up to eye level. "You shouldn't."

"I didn't do nothing!" The man yelped and his legs flailed in the air, uselessly.

"But I will," Sten gruffly promised. "There should be a sword here. Tell me, where is it?"

"A sword? There was nothing here." The man's eyes roved the deserted campsite frantically. "I think I found a half-eaten glove! Maybe. Oh, Maker, I think I wet myself... Faryn was the one that sold me this site, didn't tell me he picked it clean. Nothing of value, here, let me go, I beg you."

Adele frowned. "Someone sold you this site?"

"Yeah." The scavenger nodded as fast as his head would bob. "Faryn. Said there were all kinds of treasures made for giants. Didn't tell me he took them all already. Said he was headed to Orzammar, probably to sell them all. You don't have to hurt me now, I've told you everything I know."

Sten's hand opened and the scavenger fell to a heap on the ground. There was a hard gasp as all the air left his lungs when he hit dirt, but other than that, he was unharmed. Sten had turned to head back to camp.

"This is no place for you," Leliana told the man. "You'd best leave."

"On it," the scavenger promised. He scrambled off toward the thick of the woods.

Adele had to scurry doubletime in order to catch up to Sten. Her hand resting on his elbow was enough to still his movements. He stared deep into the forest, where the man had vanished.

She cleared her throat. "What will you, um..."

"I need to return my people to the soil," he said.

"Do you need help?"

"No."

"Okay. I, uh..." Adele shifted her weight to her other leg. Sten was already walking away, again. "I'll put the kettle on," she muttered. "I'll have tea ready when you're finished."

"What was that all about?" Leliana asked.

Adele shook her head. "Don't know. I need to make some tea."

"If you insist." The bard laid a hand on her shoulder. "Come. Let's head back to camp. I haven't heard Edgar's voice for quite some time and it troubles me."

"You think he might be in trouble?" Adele asked.

"More likely, he is the cause of some," Leliana replied. "It would a shame for us to have to flee this area before our friends return from the Tower, yes?"

Adele nodded and followed Leliana with Chester in tow. Back at camp, Silfee was no longer talking to Rastaban. He looked pleased with himself over that fact. He sat on a flat rock, quietly carving little pieces of wood away into nothing. Edgar was beaming, despite the fact that he insisted that the serving girl had wished a drawn-out and painful death upon him. Something to do with her more attractive sister he explained over supper.

Sten was gone for a long time after that. When he returned, the sun had set and his tea was long cold. Adele gave it to him, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

"Will you end this, please?" Morrigan demanded.

Donal crossed his arms and shook his head. "No. You're a capable woman, you can handle this yourself. Besides, that 'please' didn't sound all that sincere to me."

She glared at him. He looked on with a bored apathy.

"You are my daughter!" The Fade demon impersonating Flemeth warbled. "I command you to ignore this mage!"

"I do not know who is more annoying," Morrigan said. "You, a poor copy, or you, an insipid fool."

Flemeth wound her arm back and struck her daughter. "How dare you!"

"Now that was seriously rude," Donal drawled.

"Closer to the mark, yes," Morrigan said as her hand grazed the forming welt on her cheek. "But your efforts are too late, demon. Go away."

"Morrigan? Donal?" Frannie's voice circled from behind a twisted rock. The Grey Warden huffed over and looked back and forth between the two as she rested her hands on her thighs and caught her breath.

"Finally," Morrigan said with raised hands. "Someone capable enough to end this."

"I was able to escape my own nightmare without anyone's help," Donal told her. "I'm sure Frannie did, as well. If you require the aid of a gelding, what good are you to anyone else, really?"

"Oh, for all the pathetic drivel..." Sparks of electricity lanced from Morrigan's arms and struck the demon. Flemeth shuddered and looked like she was about to scream or gasp. Instead, she toppled over dead. Morrigan brushed off the top of her left hand with quick flicks of fingertips from her right. "There. I did it all by myself. Are you satisfied?"

Donal grinned wide enough to reveal a crooked row of bottom teeth. "Yes. I like you, you know."

"Oh?" The witch raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think that matters, if I might ask?"

"I think it does," Donal replied. "I mean, everyone knows you're beautiful, so it's not that. It's got to be something about you just being you. Because if you were beautiful and nice, that would just be too perfect, I suppose, and then I wouldn't even notice you."

Morrigan's eyes were heavy-lidded and almost shut as she readied herself to make another nonchalant reply. She was beginning to fade now, as Faeron had. Her mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed at Donal. "Now, what exactly is that supposed to mean? You're attracted to me not because I'm beautiful but because I'm not nice? Of all the wayward, double-edged compliments I have ever heard--"

Morrigan vanished back into the Fade, leaving only Donal and Frannie to stare at each other.

Donal nodded. "I like her."

"You didn't disappear like everyone else," Frannie said.

He shrugged. "I've been in the Fade before for my Harrowing. Maybe that had something to do with it." He clapped his hands. "So! How was your nightmare?"

"Excuse me?" Frannie blinked. "It wasn't all that exciting."

"Huh? Maybe that's how you got out of it." He leaned down eye level to her. "Do you want to know what mine was?"

Fran frowned. "Do I? This sounds like I'm going to regret this."

"It was this naked, six-breasted woman," he said. "Now, I've always insisted that, that would be my perfect woman, but to actually see one?" He shuddered. "She looked more akin to a sow or a pregnant dog with all those breasts. It just put a very unsavory feeling in my stomach. When I make love it needs to be with a woman, not a pair of udders."

"You're right," Frannie said. "I regret hearing this, already."

"Have you found anyone else, so far?" he asked. "Or have you only run into Morrigan and myself?"

"Faeron," she said. "And Nema. Faeron disappeared like Morrigan."

"And Nema was no help at all," Donal concluded. "So there's Wynne and the awkward fellow unaccounted for."

Fran snorted. "It's a little ironic of you to call Alistair awkward, don't you think?"

Donal draped an arm around her shoulder. "I call him awkward in an endearing fashion. We are brothers, then, he and I, the sort who gracefully slip our own feet into our mouths." He gestured towards a mist-covered trail of the Fade and they began to walk down it. "But seriously, what's his malfunction?"

"I suppose we'll see when we step into his dream." Fran frowned up at him. "But I don't think it'll be worse than a naked, six-breasted woman."

"I'm not trying to insult the man," he said. "I just think it takes a certain amount of effort and work, or outright meddling from the Maker, to make such a talented person simultaneously be so hapless."

Frannie ducked out from under his arm. "You've known him for less than a day. Leave him alone."

"I know the abilities of a Templar when I see one," Donal replied.

"And that scares you, huh?" she snorted.

He nodded. "Absolutely. Leaves me terrified."

"Terrified?" She paused mid-step. "Really?"

"Templars are the only people who can destroy a mage," he said. "And they feel they have the right, they justify it because magic is a sin. How do you defend yourself against a self-righteous loony who's been given the power to undo you?"

"We need to find Alistair," Fran insisted. "You can ask him that question, yourself once we find him."

"Right." Donal's voice trailed off as he came to a halt. "Smell that? Baking bread, right? I believe we've found him. I trust you'll keep our conversation to yourself?"

Frannie frowned. "What?"

"Well, not that I'm unaccustomed to the flavor of shoe leather, but if I could, I'd prefer to not look the jackass among new acquaintances," Donal said. He cleared his throat and threw his arms open as he walked deeper into the dream. "Alistair, old chum! How have you been?"

She shook her head and scrambled in after Donal.

Alistair was seated at a dining room table. He greeted them both warmly and with a smile. "Hey! It's great to see you both again," he said. "I was just thinking about you... isn't that a marvelous coincidence? This is my sister, Goldanna."

The demon nodded her head cordially. Certain features of hers matched Alistair's, the set of her brow, the way the corners of her lips curled into a smile, but her coloration was darker. Frannie glanced at Donal, who was already making himself at home in a seat opposite Alistair.

Alistair waved a hand at the vast nothing behind him. "These are her children, and there's more about somewhere. We're one big happy family, at long last!"

"Alistair..." Frannie took a few, hesitant steps toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You really don't remember how you got here?"

"What a strange question to ask, Frannie." Alistair was grinning like an idiot. Something inside her twisted; she'd never seen him this happy.

"Goldanna's a demon, you know," Donal said. He peered over his shoulder. "What's for supper? It smells wonderful."

Alistair laughed. "Oh, that's what everyone says about their relatives, but I've never been happier."

Goldanna walked over to Frannie and hunched over so that they could face each other, eye-to-eye. "I'm overjoyed to have my little brother back," she said with a smile. "I'll never let him out of my sight again! "

Frannie swallowed.

Donal leaned forward in his seat and raised an eyebrow. "You live with your sister?"

Alistair shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with living with my sister. I've never had a real family, before."

"You want a family," Frannie murmured. It was strange. Her dream had been so sterile, so fantastical. Faeron dreamed of a son, Morrigan dreamed of her mother and now Alistair had his Goldanna. Maybe she should have dreamed of her own sister. Or Leske. Why hadn't she dreamed of Rica or Leske?

Now was not the time to miss them. The loneliness gnawed at her.

"Well, Alistair," the demon prodded. "Are your friends staying for supper?"

Alistair's eyes were big, almost child-like. "Say you'll stay," he begged. "Goldanna's a great cook. Maybe she'll make her mince pie. You can, can't you?"

The demon nodded. "Of course, dear brother. Anything for you."

Donal shrugged. "I was hoping for more of a roast rack of lamb, but hey? Why not?"

"Why not?" Frannie swatted him in the back of his head. "You know exactly why not."

Donal groaned. "She's just a demon in disguise," he said in monotone, glaring at Frannie all the while. "Don't believe any of this."

"How can you say that about Goldanna?" Alistair demanded. "She's... she's the soul of goodness!"

Donal rolled his eyes and waggled a finger in the air. Alistair frowned.

"You're acting very strangely," he told Frannie.

She frowned back at him and spared a quick glance for the demon that was hovering beside them. "Think about this and how you got here," Frannie said slowly. "Think carefully. Please."

Alistair exhaled a long breath and then leaned back in his seat. "All right, if it makes you happy. I..." He paused and looked up at her, like he was searching for something. Hope, reassurance. "It's a little fuzzy, that's strange..."

The demon came behind him and began to rub at his shoulders. "Alistair, come and have some tea." There was an edge to the sweetness in her voice.

He shook his head and waved her away. "No... wait.... I remember a... tower. The Circle." He let his head fall into his hands. His fingers dug into his temples. "It was under attack.... there were demons. That's all I really remember."

"That's when we got trapped in the Fade," Frannie said. "Where we are now." She kept a hand on his forearm. Like if she kept a physical anchor on him, he wouldn't vanish like the others, she'd be able to pull him from the nightmare.

Alistair jerked back visibly. "A-are you saying... this is a-a dream?" he asked. "But it's so real..."

"Of course it's real!" The demon snapped. Her fingers stopped their rubbing and dug into his shoulders. "Now wash up before supper and I--"

"Something doesn't feel quite right here," Alistair interrupted with a raise of his hand. He looked up at his sister with a frown. "I... think I have to go."

"Yes." Donal stood up and brushed himself off. "We've wasted enough time here."

"No! He is ours!" The demon's true voice clawed inside their skulls. "I'd rather see him dead than free!"

Donal sighed. "Typical."

"Just get ready, will you?" Frannie reached for her bow.

Alistair just stood, dazed as her arrows lanced through his demon sister.

"I see how this is," Donal snorted as his hands exploded in flames. "Leave me to clean up all her little ones. How many children did she have? One for each year she was alive? Ridiculous."

Frannie tried to ignore the way their shrieks circled in her brain, stabbed through her senses as Goldanna's "children" were enveloped in Donal's fiery wrath. She forced herself to focus on the dead Goldanna and not the children.

"Alistair." Frannie tucked her bow away and tried to stand in front of the corpse, to block it from his view.

"G-Goldanna?" He sank deeper into his chair. "I can't believe it. How did I not see this earlier?"

Frannie shrugged and tried to look at him. It was easier to stare at her boots. "Maybe you didn't want to see. Can't say I blame you."

"Maybe you're just not that intelligent," Donal offered. Frannie felt her fists clench.

Alistair blinked and then raked a hand through his hair. "Yes... uh, well. Try not to tell everyone how easily fooled I was."

"There's no shame in wanting to believe," Frannie said. She shifted her weight to her other leg.

There was a transparency to Alistair. It was happening again. During the fight, she'd forgotten and stopped touching him, released her grip. Fran sprinted toward him.

"Wait, where are you going? What's happening to me?" Too late. By the time she'd reached his side, Alistair was already gone.

"Nug-licker!" Fran stomped at the now vacant space.

"Tough break," Donal muttered. "Come on, let's finish this up while we still have corporeal forms."

Frannie let him drape an arm around her shoulder and direct her down the slowly appearing path. Varying shades of purple and yellow like an old bruise, she was sick of the Fade, already. "The only one we haven't found is Wynne," she said.

"I found her." Nema's voice cut crisply across the Fade, seemingly coming from every direction.

The elf spoke with a regal tone that set Frannie on edge. In the time it took for her to look around, Nema had appeared walking beside them. She raised an eyebrow at Donal and he quickly straightened his back and retracted his arm from Fran's shoulder.

"You took care of the demons?" Frannie asked her.

"You dwelt longer in the dreams than I had expected," Nema replied. She kept her eyes pinned on Donal. "I see you gained an added distraction."

"I'm doing well, too, Nema," Donal said. "If everyone is released from their dreams and you killed all the demons, my dear, then why are we still trapped?"

"Sloth lives," Nema said. She pointed off to a far off island. "We need to rectify that."

As they walked, platforms of soil formed beneath their feet and led them toward the island. The sloth demon's silhouette loomed over them from afar, the cast shadows more opaque than their dream forms. Their strength continued to grow as one by one, their companions returned to them. First Faeron, then Morrigan, then Wynne and then Alistair, their skin glowing with an opalescent sheen as they materialized.

The sweet smell of pastries wafted through the air as they drew closer. Sloth became smaller and more matronly the nearer they came to him. At the head of a long table, he sat sipping on a cup of tea. The teapot in the center of the table, surrounded by a variety of scones and cakes, had purple steam billowing out of its spout. With a sweeping hand gesture, Sloth motioned for them to sit.

Nema's hands crackled with energy and she sent a bolt of lightning crashing into the table.


	8. Chapter 8

Breasts. Sweet, soft, wonderful. He could spend an eternity just burrowing into them.

Frannie came to with a choking gasp and shoved Donal off of her. There was a warm spot on the Tower's carpet where her body had been and a crick in his neck. The dwarf had hastily stood up with her hand wrapped around her bow and she looked more frantic than intimidating. He supposed it was fortunate that he didn't see any abominations marauding about. She staggered around their companions, all in varying degrees of consciousness, oblivious to Donal's drool spattered across her bust. It made him grin.

"Is everyone okay?" Wynne asked. She sounded old.

"Pardon me for asking," Alistair groaned, "but what in the bloody hell just happened?"

"Sloth demon," was all Nema would say. She was busy rummaging through the pockets of a corpse on the other side of the room. Donal wished he could say that it surprised him.

Sloth demon, indeed. Donal recalled them to be wretched, lazy little buggers. He would have never thought that Sloth would be able to move so fast, so viciously, with so much purpose. Had it not been for the quick reactions of Wynne, Morrigan and Nema, they would have all probably been done for. He didn't want to think about it.

"Well, I had a dream about a naked, six-breasted woman," Donal announced.

Nobody wanted to talk about it.

Faeron's knuckles were white around the hilt of his longsword and Frannie stayed within an arm's reach of her fellow dwarf. Alistair hovered over her and Donal had half a mind to join him, but Wynne's hand on his forearm stopped him. He wasn't sure if his mentor meant to offer comfort or was more exhausted than she'd care to let on. Donal didn't ask either way, he simply placed his free hand atop hers and smiled. Morrigan lingered apart from the others in the rear flank, shooting the back of his head icy glares. Nema drove the group onward and upward.

The higher up the tower they ventured, the more destruction. Instead of desks overturned and bookshelves knocked over and crippled, things were just missing. Where meeting tables or spirit founts were supposed to be, there were just burnt out sprays of effervescence. A dull moaning of psychic resonance pervaded the deserted hallways.

The sounds grew louder as the group approached the stairwell to the Harrowing Chamber and there, by the side of the stairs, caged in a magical barrier lay a Templar. Alistair shuddered as Nema stalked over to the barrier to study the craftsmanship. Donal found himself shaking his head as he recognized the man trapped.

"Poor slob," he muttered.

The Templar, Cullen, shoved himself to his feet and jutted his chin out at Nema. "This trick again? I know what you are. It won't work. I will stay strong..." And with that, the tortured man fell to his knee and readied himself for an attack.

Nema blinked. "Cullen. Don't you recognize me?"

"Only too well." He ground his fingers into the bridge of his nose. "How far they must have delved into my thoughts."

"The boy is exhausted," Wynne murmured. "And this cage... I've never seen anything like it."

Nema continued to examine the barrier. Her hand grazed across the glimmering pink of the cage and was rewarded with a harsh zap.

"Rest easy," Wynne said. "Help is here."

Cullen looked less than relieved. "Enough visions," his voice came out a hard, guttural choke. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game."

Frannie exchanged a confused look with Donal. The way Nema's eyebrow twitched made it look like the barrier was the only thing keeping her from backhanding Cullen.

"You broke the others," he continued. "But I will stay strong, for my sake... for theirs..."

"Stop," she hissed. Cullen ignored her.

"Sifting through my thoughts," he said. "Tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have."

That made Donal laugh. "No way! You're joking, right? Tell me you're joking."

Wynne's hand on his arm tightened noticeably and she shook her head at him.

Cullen paid no attention to them. "Using my shame against me, my ill-advised infatuation with her... a mage, of all things." His voice cracked. "I am so tired of these cruel jokes! These tricks, these..."

As the other man fell into sobs, Donal found himself averting his eyes. Others, like Faeron and Morrigan, had no difficulty in continuing to watch.

"Stop it," Nema repeated. "You're embarrassing me."

"Silence!" Cullen was to his feet again, spittle punctuating his ire. "I'll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!"

Nema just stood there and crossed her arms.

"Still here?" He swayed back towards the center of his cage. "But that's always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them."

"Makes you wish you hadn't said those things, doesn't it," Donal commented. Wynne swatted his arm.

"I am beyond caring what you think!" Cullen bellowed. The poor fool appeared mad enough with rage to charge headlong into the barrier. "The Maker knows my sin and I pray that he will forgive me."

"Cullen," Nema said. "Are you ready to cooperate or have you not yet finished with your screaming and accusations?"

"Don't blame me for being cautious." His lip pulled back into a sneer. "The voices, images... so real. Why have you returned to the tower? How did you survive?"

"Cullen." Nema smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I am Nema Surana. Everything that stood in my way is dead. Now it's Uldred's turn."

Cullen grinned rabidly and nodded his head. "Good. Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they've done. They caged us like animals, looked for ways to break us. I'm the only one left. They turned some into monsters and there was nothing I could do."

"Be thankful it wasn't you." With that, Nema turned from him and gestured to the group to move on.

"Don't think I'm not grateful..." Cullen began. "Wait. Where are you going? You're going to kill them? You need to. If one malificarum escapes, Ferelden is doomed!"

Faeron sidled up next to Nema as she made her way up the steps to the Harrowing Chamber. "He does have a point about the blood mages," he said.

"Best not to tell him about the possibility of an archdemon, then," she replied. "The simpleton might wet himself over it."

"The memory of his friends' deaths is still fresh in his mind," Alistair murmured to himself. He looked pale in the light reflected from the barrier and his eyes darted everywhere save for Cullen.

Wynne let go of Donal's arm and hurried to Nema. "If we're to defend ourselves against blood magic, we first need the Litany of-"

"I have it," Nema said. "Focus on Uldred."

"You have it?" Wynne said. "How...?"

"Focus on Uldred," was all Nema would say.

The Harrowing Chamber was filled not so much with the screams of agony, rather the half-uttered groans of the dying and defeated. In the center of the chamber, Uldred stood to the side of a mage he had suspended in air.

"Do you accept the gifts that I offer?" the blood mage asked.

"Enchanter Donovan," Wynne said.

"Yeah," Donal replied. "I borrowed a book from him, once. Never gave it back."

Wynne nodded toward a corner in the chamber. "Irving's still alive. I knew it."

The First Enchanter was haggard, but breathing. His restraints were magical in origin and so, would only disperse if the mage responsible willed it.

"So, all we need to do is get Uldred to piss off and then everything'll turn out dandy." Donal nodded. "Wonderful."

Morrigan lingered just inside the doorway of the chamber. The only route of escape, her position was a smart, if pessimistic one. "This will prove to be an interesting battle," she said.

No sooner had the words left her lips that Enchanter Donovan rose up higher in the air, his face pointed up towards the ceiling. Blue light tore through his mouth and eyes and an otherworldly scream fought its way out of lips that were melting into something entirely different.

"I suppose I won't need to give Enchanter Donovan his book back," Donal said, his eyes on the newly-minted abomination.

Where Donovan had been, stood a mockery of the human form, with mottled pink and blistered skin. It blinked slowly, no more intelligent than a cow, and took its place behind Uldred. Uldred had since turned his attentions to Nema.

"Ah, look what we have here," he said. "I remember you. Irving's star pupil. Uldred didn't think much of you, then, and I certainly don't see your appeal, now."

Nema faced him with a quiet, frozen rage. "Well, forgive me if I'm not very impressed," she said.

Uldred sighed. "I suppose one can't be loved universally." He took a few steps towards her. "I'm quite impressed you're still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants." Her shook his head and began to circle her slowly. "Ah, well, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence."

Frannie was slack-jawed. "This is horrible."

Alistair placed a numb hand on her shoulder.

"This is bad, Wynne." Donal's whisper came out an obnoxious, rasping hiss. "Really bad. We need to end this fast."

"You know what happens to people who get in my way, abomination?" Nema said. "They die."

Uldred chuckled. "Really?"

"Really." Nema reached into her robes and wrapped her long fingers around the Litany of Andralla. "The Circle has much to answer for. You won't live to see it."

And with that, the elf mage began to glow. Faeron was the first of the group to charge in with his longsword raised and Alistair and Frannie soon followed after. There was a brief moment of shock that registered over Uldred when he realized he no longer had any of his mage thralls under his command, courtesy of the Litany of Andralla, but then the demon in possession of him no longer had any reason to hide his true form. He lurched forward as claws forced their way out of fingertips, his nose shrank back into a snout as fangs dislodged his original teeth. His stature grew and so did horns. The beast quickly abandoned his use of blood magic and switched over to more traditional spellcraft and melee.

Morrigan froze their world over and Donal melted it back again. So much fire, ice and lightning were flying around the chamber it was difficult to make any sense of it. Frannie picked one spot to aim at and fired her bow repeatedly, unsure of if she was hitting an actual target or merely adding to the chaos. The only indication Frannie had of receiving a wound was the refreshing tingle of the healing magic that Wynne wove.

It was over quickly, or maybe, it just felt that way. Flesh that clung to the walls seemed to retract, shrivel and die. Irving and one other mage was left intact; all others were scattered pieces across the carpet. Uldred was face-down and unmoving. He looked human.

"Maker, I am too old for this." On the ground, Irving looked more like a befuddled old man than the powerful first enchanter that he was.

Wynne was at his side. "Irving! Are you alright?"

He chuckled. "I've... been better. But I'm thankful to be alive. I suppose this is your doing, isn't it, Wynne?"

She smiled. "I wasn't alone. I had help."

Irving's gaze fell on the scattered group before him. Morrigan was still in the doorway, while Alistair circled Uldred's corpse and frowned. Irving locked eyes with Nema and nodded. "I was surprised to see you stand there, but I am glad you returned."

"Glad?" A single eyebrow shot up on Nema's forehead. "If not for manners, I would spit on you right now."

That made Irving laugh. "It is good to see you haven't changed, Nema. The circle owes both of you a debt we will never be able to repay."


	9. Chapter 9

Rastaban Mahariel spoke rarely. Usually satisfied with a glare or a flared nostril, the Dalish elf had a tendency to keep his thoughts to himself. A pity, because if Adele's memory served her correctly, he had a beautiful speaking voice.

"I hardly understand why we need to fulfill these treaties of old," he said suddenly. His words were a break in the monotony of travel, so everyone turned their attentions to him. "We have been gathering quite the clandestine army, picking up stragglers in nearly every town we stumble through."

The runes of his people started at his temple and spanned across his forehead and dipped down beyond the bridge of his nose. Adele wondered what he had to do to earn those tattoos, wondered what life must have been like for him. Maybe if things had played out differently, she too would have had foliage scrawling across her brow as a permanent reminder of her heritage.

Edgar laughed and Adele tried not to jump out of her skin.

"If you don't see the necessity of these treaties, you are free to leave," Nema snapped.

That ended the discussion for the time being, but Rastaban had a point. In the weeks following the attack on the Circle of Magi, their party had been growing disproportionately large. First Wynne had joined them, with the foul-mouthed mage Donal Amell close on her heels. While Sten and Faeron Aeducan were set on making their way to the Frostback Mountains and Orzammar, the group was first sidetracked by the assassin Zevran Arainai and then a golem hunt where they collected Shale.

So with seven Grey Wardens, two mages, an apostate, a bard, a noblewoman, a qunari warrior, assassin, golem and dog, tempers were becoming frayed and food stores were dwindling. Sten and Faeron were becoming increasingly tight-lipped and angry as they neared the Frostback Mountains, while Leliana would chatter on about restocking supplies. Even Frannie Brosca's calm exterior had given way to an excitable energy that Adele hadn't seen before.

She didn't know how she would react if they had to return to the Alienage in Denerim. She couldn't wait to run to her father's arms like a child, yes, but then what? Adele doubted she would have the strength to return to the Wardens if she saw him again, to muster the bravery to do what was needed of her. She twisted the wedding band on her finger; how strange was it, to lack the words to explain just how far out of her depth she truly was? One glance to her comrades told Adele that they were worried, tired and frustrated, but not a single one looked as lost as she felt.

"Bounty hunters." Zevran's voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. Adele found it gut-wrenchingly comical that she felt more at ease around an assassin than the majority of her new allies simply due to the shape of his ears. The Antivan elf had tried to kill them, yet years of experience in the Alienage taught her to trust him but to be skittish around humans like Edgar or Alistair. Zevran tsked and with a shake of his head, he gestured towards the thugs gathering in front of them. "So sloppy. They do not even try to hide their presence. Let's reward their cockiness, no?"

Zevran was already diving headlong into the fray before Adele could even nod. He would have to if he wanted any chance of participating in the attack. There had been so much misinformation and rumors in the days after Ostagar that Loghain hadn't been sending the numbers required to squash any resistance. Adele was convinced, partly because Zevran had said as much himself, that he had prepared for a group of no more than two Wardens and a mage and had only two Wardens and a mage walked into his trap, he would have killed them with little difficulty.

As it was, Sten was cutting through a mage without hesitation while Faeron swung his sword at the leader of the bounty hunters before Zevran could even sink his knives into the closest thug. It was a little disconcerting how rarely Adele had to fight due to how much more eagerly some of her companions craved it. She arrived too late to be of any real help, and all she got for her efforts was a spray of warm blood across her face as Zevran slashed one of the bounty hunters' throats.

Morrigan, Silfee and Shale made their way forward casually. They didn't even bother unsheathing their weapons as they glanced, bored, at the carnage.

"So these are the Frostback Mountains?" Silfee mused. "They looked so attractive when we were farther from the mountain's base."

"An apt metaphor for you, then?" Rastaban muttered it so quietly that Adele stared at him a moment to convince herself that he actually uttered the words.

Silfee laughed. "Hush. Look, the qunari is shaking down a merchant!"

"Where is my sword?" Sten was big. Adele knew he was big. But she had never really considered just how big until she saw him lift up a man by his throat and roar into his face. Chester the dog sat at the qunari's heels and wagged his tail.

The merchant was in a full state of panic, all flailing arms and purple faced. "I- I don't have it! I swear by Andraste's knickers! I sold it on the way here!"

Sten pulled the other man's face to his so that every syllable of his rage was for the merchant alone. "Where is it?"

"A dwarf near Redcliffe! Dwyn, I think his name was." The merchant's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fainted.

Sten opened his hand and the other man fell with a thud. "Useless." He turned around and started back down the mountain. Adele scrambled after him.

"Wait!" She called out. "Where are you going? We need to go to Orzammar."

"Do I?" His pace didn't slow.

"Is your sword really that important?"

"Yes."

Adele glanced back at the group and then again at Sten's retreating form. Her insides twisted. "Don't go alone."

That stopped him. Sten turned around and silently stared at her. Adele swallowed hard. As Sten started to walk away again, she called out, "Let me go with you."

He paused once more, but didn't look back at her. "Then come."

"Where are we going?" Edgar sounded out of breath as he jogged over to them. Behind him, Chester barked.

Adele opened her mouth, but looking at the human the words wouldn't come. Edgar was handsome, just like Vaughan had been handsome. She pointed a thumb to Sten.

"Redcliffe," Rastaban said.

"You too?" Adele asked.

"If our group is as talented as they claim, they don't need so many of us in Orzammar." The Dalish glowered at Nema at the head of the group and who had already continued her climb up the mountain. "I would be more useful in the wilderness than underground."

"Fantastic!" Edgar clapped a hand around Rastaban's shoulder. "We'll go to Redcliffe to reclaim a sword of truthiness, then!"

Chester barked and wagged his tail. Sten snorted, but said no more. Adele followed quietly, a timid shadow.


	10. Chapter 10

"Kin slayer? Oh, you're not getting in."

The color had left Faeron's face. He looked up at the gate guard and desperately tried to ignore Loghain's messenger. "Endrin's dead? How? When did he die?"

"Losing two sons, one to murder and one to exile?" The messenger almost sounded sympathetic. He must not have realized who he was speaking with. "Who can blame him for seeking peace among the ancestors?"

"The Assembly has gone through a dozen votes without agreeing on a successor," the gate guard explained. He stood, unmoving in front of the entrance to Orzammar. "If it is not settled soon, we risk a civil war."

Frannie reached a hand to Faeron's arm, but then thought better of it. She cleared her throat. "We're Grey Wardens and we have a treaty that obliges Orzammar to aid us."

The gate guard looked unimpressed as he stared at the brand on Frannie's cheek. Fortunately, Alistair was there with the treaty and the guard looked it over and acknowledged the seal while Loghain's messenger flapped his jaw indignantly.

Morrigan waved the messenger off while Silfee blew kisses at the man's momentary speechlessness. He scowled, but as his glare scanned over the size of the group of wardens and their companions, he turned and began his descent down the mountain.

Zevran shook his head. "We should not let him go. He will return to Loghain with knowledge of our numbers and abilities."

"Loghain would have the Grey Wardens be murderers," Wynne said. "It would serve us better to disprove his claims."

Zevran didn't look convinced, but he didn't pursue the retreating messenger.

The gate guard signaled his fellows with a hand gesture and the massive stone doors to Orzammar creaked to life. As the doors opened, everyone was greeted by a dimly lit passage. The cool smell of soil sent flutters down Frannie's belly. Home. She had almost forgotten the smell.

"Wait. We're headed underground?" Donal Amell's voice shook Frannie from her revelry.

"We did come to Orzammar to see dwarves," Alistair said.

"There are enough dwarves up here in the merchant bazaar to sate your curiosity," Donal insisted. He waved a hand at the sky. "Besides, the light is crap down there- there's no way I'd get any of my reading done."

Leliana frowned. "Surely you're joking?"

"It's quite alright," Wynne said. She chuckled softly. "Just as dwarves get sky sick when they reach the surface, some topsiders can find the underground cities a bit... claustrophobic."

That had Alistair doubled over laughing as Donal clutched his heart and screamed, "Wynne! You traitor!"

Frannie might have joined in the merriment too, had she not been maybe an hour's travel from home. An hour's travel from Rica, from Leske. An hour's travel from hugging them both, kissing them both. Warden business aside, she was home.

"Fine, sure, the coward Amell will stay up here." The unhealthy pallor of Donal's skin was currently flushed bright scarlet. "Enjoy your time down there in your enclosed death trap. I will stay up here and read." He punctuated his final words by slapping the blackened and ancient cover of a grimoire.

Morrigan's eyes narrowed and she stalked over to Donal's side. "I will stay above ground as well," she said. "In the off chance that Loghain's men return, we will act as scouts."

"Donal?" Alistair called out. "Are you sure you're going to be okay up here," he raised an eyebrow and nodded toward Morrigan, "with her?"

"These ears on my head do serve a purpose," Morrigan hissed back. "He is only slightly more worth my time than you."

"So I'm moving up in the world, then." Donal picked a shady spot to the far right of the door and sat. He opened the tome and licked his forefinger. "We'll be fine."

With two less, the group continued on. Nema and Faeron were already far ahead of the others, but the dwarf looked far more dazed than the elf. He kept repeating the phrase, "Father is dead," over and over again underneath his breath.

Frannie giggled. "I'm home!" How long had it been? It seemed a short eternity ago that Ostagar had aged them all. The statues of the paragons stared at them, unrepentant.

It felt odd. She was home, she was excited, she was proud, she didn't belong. The stonework looked the same, the merchants' square was the same, everything was wrong. Men were killing each other openly in the streets over who should be king and there were street criers lauding Bhelen as the benevolent and rightful ruler right next to fliers of the would-be king depicted with an offensive beardless caricature. How could everything look as she remembered, smell as she remembered, yet be so very, very not right?

Frannie cupped a hand over the cheek that carried her brand.

Faeron locked eyes with her briefly before he announced, "There are things I need to attend to. We'll be in touch." The disgraced prince turned and marched off stoically toward the Diamond Quarter.

"Now wait just a minute," Alistair spluttered after the other man.

"Leave him," Nema said. "He and I have an agreement."

"Does your agreement involve thinning our ranks until we're indefensible?" Alistair asked. "I've noticed we've been losing people left and right."

Nema faced him squarely. "Don't you think that if I were intentionally discarding people I would start with you?"

"No," he snorted. "I'm more attractive than some of the others and you can always use a bit of eye candy for morale."

"He is rather handsome," Silfee chimed in. "He reminds me of someone from back at home in Highever, but I can't exactly place it. Although I'm quite taken with the elf as well." Her eyes traveled across Zevran's body and he took that opportunity to stare openly at her bosom.

"Don't do it, Zevran," Alistair said. The young man was trying to smirk away the pink tinge that had overtaken to his ears. "She only wants you for your body."

Zevran laughed. "And why shouldn't she? It has been trained by the best."

The blush spread from Alistair's ears to his cheeks. "Well, I... What I mean to say is-"

"Yes. That sounds like it's for the best," Silfee said with a nod. "Because I cannot decide which man is more attractive I shall have to compare you two against your other merits."

The conversation was doing nothing for the color of Alistair's face. "Oh, sweet Andraste's flaming knickers. I respectfully decline. Zevran wins. See? We have a winner and can move on, now. Yay."

"Yes," Nema said. "Let's."

The deshyrs and the Assembly were located in the Diamond Quarter, so that's where they headed. Frannie hadn't expected to see Rica there. Rica, dripping with jewels and beaming ear to ear.

Frannie had wanted to hug Rica. Rica had her arms wrapped tightly around Frannie's waist before she could even silence the fluttering of her gut long enough to react.

"I can't believe it! I heard a dwarven Grey Warden came to Orzammar and I couldn't help but hope..." Rica looked healthy. She looked happy.

Frannie managed to smile and nod as Rica chattered away. Royal concubine, House Aeducan, baby Endrin. A baby? A son! Somewhere in the back of Frannie's mind she had thought that she would be the one, the hero to storm back in to Orzammar and save her mother and sister from poverty. It was nice that Rica had managed without her.

Stone, it didn't matter. She was an aunt! Frannie's head was spinning.

"...I know his chief lieutenant, Vartag Gavorn. He can help you if anyone can." One final squeeze and a kiss on the cheek and Rica retreated back to Aeducan Castle.

"We need to head to the Assembly," Nema said. "This deadlock cannot continue if we're to have dwarven aid."

"Yeah." Frannie nodded. "That's where Vartag Gavorn is. That way we can help Prince Bhelen take the throne."

Nema ignored her and stormed on.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dulin. It's been a long time."

"You?" Dulin's eyes widened slightly, then with a cough he feigned a casual expression. "What are you doing here?"

"I was rescued from the Deep Roads by the Grey Wardens," Faeron said. "They now count me among their ranks."

Dulin raked a hand across his gingered beard. "But why have you come here?"

Faeron glanced behind him. No one appeared to have noticed him, yet, but that didn't mean he hadn't already been enveloped by the vicious political machinations of Orzammar. Nobles continued to stroll through the Diamond Quarter with their noses in the air, obstinately oblivious to the fact that his father was dead. "I was hoping that Lord Harrowmont could answer some questions for me," he said. "He was always a dear friend of Father's."

Dulin nodded towards the doors and practically dragged Faeron into the estate. When the doors shut behind them with a loud click, Dulin shook his head. "You could have taken the side entrance, away from prying eyes."

"I thought about it." Faeron unsheathed his longsword and set it on the ground before Dulin's feet. "But I wanted to be straightforward, so that you trusted my intentions."

With a single hand gesture from Dulin, a guard had apprehended the longsword and they were walking down the finely polished walkway. "Forgive the surveillance, Bhelen's spies are everywhere."

"Sounds like my little brother," Faeron murmured.

There wasn't a splinter of wood in the estate and all the cloth was woven from moss fibers. It was a welcome change from the surface. It was disturbing to him how quickly it had all been wrenched away from him, how blind he had been. He dragged a finger across the decorative runes carved in the wall before he brought his hand under his nose. The surface sun degraded everything under its harsh rays, bleached it, burned away its quality.

Lord Pyral Harrowmont sat in his bedchamber surrounded by soldiers. He smiled a waved a hand toward an empty seat. "I apologize for the heavy guard, but if I remember correctly, you can fight like a tainted wyvern when cornered."

"I was trained by the best." Faeron sat down. The cool stone of the chair was unforgiving. "It sounds like my brother is making things difficult for you."

Harrowmont sighed. "Very."

Faeron leaned forward. "Tell me everything."

That made Harrowmont laugh. "You're very frank. I always liked that about you, but I can see now why your journey into Orzammar politics was so short lived."

"My father is dead," Faeron said. "And all anyone will say is that he died of heartbreak."

"Possibly," Harrowmont allowed. "Although, I would not be surprised if poison helped him along."

Faeron was quiet as he massaged his fingers into his forehead. How far had his brother fallen to sabotage their own father? Bhelen was turning into the perfect dwarven noble.

"Endrin spoke of you constantly from his deathbed."

"Pyral, I will ally myself with you regardless, but please, don't lie to me," Faeron said.

"He did mention you," Harrowmont amended. He spoke, softer then, "No one believes you killed Trian, Faeron."

"But it doesn't matter, now."

The past year had not been kind to Pyral Harrowmont. Deep grooves were etched into his forehead and stress fractures were carved into the corners of his mouth. The gray hair of his beard washed him out. "It was a mistake to banish you to the Deep Roads, son."

"It doesn't matter, now," Faeron repeated.

"Then why have you returned?" Harrowmont asked. "I have fond memories of you child, but given the unrest in Orzammar currently, perhaps it's better that they stay memories."

"There's a surface Blight." There was no strength behind Faeron's words. To hell with that sodding, stone-forsaken surfacer problem. He was so sick of arguing his right to belong in his own home. "The Grey Wardens are using their treaties to seek out dwarven aid."

"And you know as well as I do that the Wardens will not receive any aid until there's a king on the throne," Harrowmont concluded. He leaned back in his seat and stroked his beard. "So it would seem that you have to either assist your brother or myself to the throne for the sake of Ferelden."

"So it would seem," was all Faeron would say for a long time.

"Whatever your group decides, you should dissolve the carta in the name of your would-be king," Harrowmont said. "Those blasted criminals have noticed the power vacuum and are taking full advantage of it and terrorizing merchants."

"Thank you, old friend." Faeron stood and dusted himself off. "I'll use the side exit when I leave."

Harrowmont stood and placed a hand on Faeron's shoulder. "No. You used the front entrance, you can exit from there as well. Let them talk."

And there it was. The subtle underbelly of the game that Faeron had so hoped to avoid. He nodded. He collected his longsword from the guard and strapped it to his back.

"Here's something else you may find of interest," Harrowmont said as he led the other man to the door. "A woman named Mardy has been looking for you."

"Mardy?" Faeron had to think a long moment before the name registered.

"If memory serves me, she's smith caste." Harrowmont gripped his hand and shook it.

"I..." Faeron embraced the other man. "I believe I know a Mardy."

That was troubling. Mardy had been a flicker of a memory before the tragedy. It was embarrassing to think that he barely remembered her given everything that happened. She would be rightly insulted. The implications of her seeking him out twisted his insides. What color were her eyes? He couldn't remember what she looked like when she smiled.

He said his goodbyes to Harrowmont and began the difficult journey to the Merchant Quarter to find Mardy.


	12. Chapter 12

Andruil, goddess of the hunt, would grant him patience. Rastaban ground his teeth. Fly straight, and do not waver, he told himself. In the distance, the dog relieved himself on a knotted tree stump.

The Dalish man began to question his judgment in leaving Orzammar.

His keeper, Marethari, had stressed patience. She had told him that he would be exposed to a variety of peoples as a Grey Warden and that different did not always mean the same as wrong. She knew him. She knew it was easier to judge, and compartmentalize people instead of trying to form relationships.

Still, Marethari's gentle, prodding words could have never prepared him for this. Rastaban had sought reprieve from Orzammar, not for the lack of trees and singing of birds, but to escape the poisoned mind of the elven mage. He could forgive the humans for their callous and ignorant mannerisms, they were only acting out the roles of victors. But his own people- what had happened to his people? The malice and entitlement exhibited by the Surana woman was disturbing.

Then there was the Tabris girl. To see such a broken and dilapidated husk of a person filled him with an insatiable rage. How was she a Warden? How was she an elf? Even now, she shadowed the qunari with a quiet, invisible grace that would put many of the hunters he knew to shame. Yet Rastaban knew that if she noticed his gaze was on her, she would immediately crumple. It made him want to march to Denerim and raze the alienage himself.

He never should have left his clan. Duncan had claimed that Rastaban had been tainted and the only cure was the joining process, but in truth, he had only felt sicker since participating in the joining. Nights were a cruel nuisance where he could inevitably feel the Archdemon attempt to snake its fingers into his mind. Its words were a painful, grinding gibberish with the occasional identifiable phrase. "Gather," "overcome," "blood." The dread wolf now had the face of a dragon. He did not like it.

"How much longer?" The qunari's voice was a welcome distraction.

"Not long, now," the human, Edgar, promised. "I have many fond memories of Redcliffe."

That wasn't the most soothing assertion. Rastaban was fairly confident that they weren't traveling in the right direction, but he was sick of arguing. The dog seemed to be far more successful at redirecting his master than Rastaban. A bark and a tail wag and Edgar would trot down the beaten dirt path after the mabari hound.

"I do hope Bann Teagan is there," Edgar continued. He pulled his sword out and swung at an overhanging tree branch. "Silfee will be ever so jealous if I see him and she doesn't."

The air in the forest tasted off, like disease and rot. The dog's stump of a tail was held stiff and low. Rastaban couldn't quite place it yet, but something felt wrong, unnatural. The trees were not the right color for the season.

"Your sword," Adele said suddenly. She had a voice like a wraith, airy and unused. It caught the attention of the qunari, however, perhaps because she spoke in such sparse bursts. "Was it a gift?"

"That sword was made for my hand alone," the qunari said. "I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people."

So there was honor left in the world, yet. Rastaban picked up a yellowed leaf and it came apart in his fingers.

The qunari's pale eyes stared out across the expanse of forest along the trail they were on. "Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam."

The girl didn't understand. "It's just an object, Sten."

"Do your people have no souls?" he asked. "That sword is as much part of me as my arm, my heart, my life. The antaam would view me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath."

"So that's why you caged yourself," she murmured.

"A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware." The qunari stared at Edgar as he said that. Farther up the trail, the nobleman was laughing and wrestling with his dog.

Adele offered a thin lipped smile as she nodded her head. "We'll find your sword, Sten."

That made the qunari soften. Rastaban snorted. Well, as soft as the giants would ever deem acceptable in public. "Perhaps those words are empty," the qunari said. "But thank you all the same."

The dog had clamped his jaws down on his master's gauntleted wrist and had taken to directing Edgar towards the correct path to Redcliffe that way. Aside from the occasional inane prattling from Edgar, the group traveled in silence. A thought occurred to Rastaban.

"The qunari explained why he caged himself, but you," he looked at Adele, "I don't understand why you've chosen to do the same."

"I beg your pardon?" Her hair was a mass of tangled gold.

"Why have you caged yourself?" Rastaban asked.

"I don't understand." The tips of her ears were barely visible beneath that mess of hair. With her shoulders hunched forward and her head bowed, Adele had mastered the art of appearing unimportant. A corrupted bow that bent too much. "I haven't caged myself."

"You carry the alienage with you and it hinders your every movement," he said. "From the way you cower in shadows to the shackle on your finger."

"My shackle?" She glanced down at the wedding band on her finger before she thrust her hand out in front of him. "This was a gift. It's a reminder."

He snorted. "Of your weakness?"

"Yes."

That stopped him. When she stared at him, her lip trembled, but her gaze did not waver. He'd expected rationalizations, denials, excuses. Anything but the truth.

"A man died because of me," Adele said after a long inhale. "He didn't know me, if I was worthy or if he even liked me, but he was still willing to lay down his life for me. I don't know why he thought I was that special, I couldn't even save my cousin before the arl and his men... they hurt her." She brought her other hand to the ring and began to rub the cheap metal. "Now I'm a Grey Warden and am supposed to save the entire country, but I couldn't save my fiance, I couldn't even save my cousin. So yes, it may not be written across my face in blood, but I do carry the alienage with me."

"You know of the vallaslin?" It would seem that Rastaban had been wrong.

"Proud men like you are cut down in the alienage," Adele said. "And their heads are used as examples for the rest of us."

"Keep watching, then, da'len." Rastaban nodded. "And I will provide many examples for you."


	13. Chapter 13

"Leske! Leske, it's you!" Frannie had her arms around him and was smothering his face with kisses before he could respond.

Leske was laughing that sort of uncomfortable chuckle he gave when he was with unfamiliar company. She could tell he was trying to size up her companions, to gauge what kind of threat they could pose. Frannie didn't care; he tasted like dirt and ale and sweat. She kept squeezing him until he was able to pry her off.

"Well, chew me up and swallow me whole," Leske said. He looked well-fed and as clean as any duster could manage. "I never thought I'd see you back here."

Frannie giggled. "I never thought I'd be back here!"

"What happened, duster?" he asked. "You miss being spit on?" His voice was warm, but his eyes were trained on Shale. Frannie supposed it was only natural; having a golem around was bizarre at best.

In her excitement, she'd forgotten about the others. Not everyone could understand Dust Town. Too dirty for the likes of Silfee and Nema, they stood bored alongside Shale. Wynne was respectfully quiet while Alistair appeared to be frozen by his discomfort. Only Zevran and Leliana looked to be at ease and perhaps a little too forward with the inhabitants.

"If I said I missed you?" Frannie pressed her forehead against Leske's and beamed madly.

He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't believe you." He placed a hand over his heart. "A year and not a single letter? I'm heartbroken. I'll never recover."

"Okay, so maybe there was some Warden business," Frannie said. "Something about getting an arse in Ozammar's throne."

Leske nodded. "Makes sense. You do realize that kings would be found in the Diamond Quarter and not in Dust Town, right?"

"Yeah, but Jarvia's down here," Frannie replied.

Leske's eyebrows raised. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Team Bhelen, right?" Leske asked.

"We haven't decided, yet," Nema said very pointedly. The elf kept staring at the overhanging rock ceiling like it would collapse on them all. Maybe she was daring it to.

"Oh, dwarven politics!" There was actual excitement in Silfee's voice as she clenched her hands into fists. "I've always heard stories. I'm interested to see just how conniving they can actually be."

"I'm hoping Bhelen will be crowned, yeah," Frannie told him.

"I figured," Leske said. "Have you seen baby Endrin, yet?"

Frannie tried to stifle the idiotic grin on her face. She had a hunch it wasn't working. "No, have you?"

That made him laugh. "Nah, if Bhelen's not even showing his face in public there's no way he'd expose his only heir to a possible assassin. I just thought that maybe you'd seen him. I bet he's got that obnoxious red hair like you and Rica."

"I hope not, that poor kid," Frannie snorted. Stone, she'd missed Leske. "But seriously, Leske. Do you know where Jarvia is?"

His shoulders tightened and his voice shrank to a quiet hiss. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"You're not still with the carta, are you?"

"Stone, no." He darted quick glances over his shoulder. Only a pile of rocks and some moss were there to overhear them. "You think Jarvia'd give me a hug and a kiss for taking down her lover? You and me even talked about taking over once Beraht was gone, you think she can't smell that?"

"Then tell me where to find her." Frannie grasped his arms with her hands. "I won't let anything happen to you, you know that. It'll be just like old times. I'll save your ass and then you can tell everyone at the bar later about how it was all your idea."

"Listen, duster..."

"Leske."

"Okay." He swallowed down a grimace. "After Bhelen took Rica up city, the carta laid claim to your old home. They put a back entrance in. It just goes to some storage tunnels, but there's probably a way into Beraht's old estate from there."

"Thanks, Leske." She gave his arms a final squeeze and then released him.

Leske shrugged. "I better get out of here before anyone sees us here together," he waited for her to nod, "but tell me how it turns out." His footsteps were deliberately casual as he sauntered into the shadows of an alley and vanished.

"Why would they take my house?" Frannie muttered.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Who was that?" he asked. She only now realized just how intently he was studying a broken rune imbedded in the walkway.

"Just a friend." The back of Frannie's neck felt hot. Maybe it had been rude of her not to introduce anyone to Leske.

"A friend," Alistair repeated.

"Yup," was all she felt like saying.

"Why do you never greet me with hugs and kisses?" Zevran tsked. "We are friends, are we not?"

"He's my best friend," she said.

"Ah! It is a shame that he is setting us up, then, no?" The elf appeared more out of place than the other surfacers, with his delicate features and proportions. This did not stop him from throwing his hands back behind his head as he strutted about like he owned the place.

"This coming from the guy who was paid to kill us all?" Frannie snapped.

That got a low chuckle out of Zevran. "That would make me the expert on such things, then? His words did not match up with his body language. He was not being honest."

"Even their peasants plot and scheme like nobles!" Silfee exclaimed. Frannie wanted to slap the smile off the other woman's face.

"Leske's never been honest," Frannie insisted. "That's part of his charm. But he'd never sell me out."

"Surely there are good people left in this world," Leliana said. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and in doing so, placed herself almost effortlessly in between Frannie and Zevran. "Not everyone we come across is intent on betraying us."

Zevran's teeth were a shade too white against his sun-darkened skin as he grinned. "You need more conviction behind your words if anyone is to believe what you say, sister."

Wynne intervened with a hand placed gently on Zevran's shoulder. "Regardless of whether it's a trap or not," she said. "It's the only information we have at present. It would be prudent to be wary, but that shouldn't prevent us from investigating the home."

"Leske wouldn't," Frannie ground out. "He wouldn't."

Shale sighed. "I care little for whether or not yet another soft creature will betray us. It's simply a matter of will I be crushing one head into a pulpy mass, or will I be crushing several."

"Agreed," Nema said. The mage pressed her hand against the worn stone wall of a home and after a moment, walked to the actual side of the tunnel that the recesses of Dust Town had been carved out of. "I don't know if the integrity of these walls will withstand some of my more powerful spells."

"It's Dust Town," Frannie said. "It will have to."


	14. Chapter 14

Donal began to count backwards in his mind. Morrigan's eyes were frozen, icy daggers trained on him. Several minutes had passed since their friends had ventured into Orzammar and it was growing difficult to feign indifference to her accusatory glare. He released a long exhale and continued to flip through the tattered tome on his lap. Ten, nine, eight, seven...

"Where did you find that grimoire?" Morrigan said finally.

"Oh, this old thing?" He pointed to a yellowed page with his first two fingers. "I've had this for years."

"Do not lie to me." She stalked over to him and crossed her arms. The shadow her body created in the sunlight cut across the pages and made it difficult to read. "It is leatherbound and has a leafless tree on the cover. That grimoire does not belong to you."

Donal tilted his head up to look at her hovering form. "Yes?"

"You should not have that in your possession."

"You're right, you got me." Donal closed the book and patted a spot on the ground next to him. The sun warmed grass was soft and smelled sweet. "It was in the First Enchanter's office back at the Circle. He wasn't there to tell me no, so I just took it."

Morrigan sat in the spot he had gestured to. "You stole it."

"Borrowed it," he said. "I fully intend to return it to the First Enchanter, someday."

"You should not, for it does not belong to him." She reached for the grimoire and Donal pulled it away from her grasp. "Tis my mother's."

"This text is ancient," he snorted. "You expect me to believe it's your mum's?"

"I expect you to do nothing," Morrigan said. "But tis my mother's. That's the truth. Now, give it to me. It is of no value to you, you cannot even decode the cipher in which it's written."

His nostril flared. "Sure I can." Donal opened the tome to a random yellowed page and pointed to a symbol. "See that? It says that Donal Amell found the grimoire first, so deal with it."

Her eyes narrowed. "You obnoxious, foolish man!"

"Hey, I'll have you know I come from a long ancestry of well-to-do nobles in Kirkwall," he replied, his finger still pointing at the line of cipher. "There would be plenty of women lining up for this obnoxious, foolish mug."

"Are you trying to incite jealousy from me, or pity?" Morrigan asked. "I feel neither. Although, perhaps that explains your entitlement and refusal to give back what is more rightfully mine than yours."

"Nah." He shut the grimoire and dropped it back onto his lap. "I was picked up by the Circle so young, I hardly have any memories of Kirkwall. Just the freakish ginger complexion and horribly crooked nose to suggest generations worth of noble breeding."

"Does all this self-deprecation actually attract women to you?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Probably not, or I suspect I would be married with a few mistresses by now," he replied. He could feel the raw sting of a blossoming sunburn on the back of his neck. "Why should I lend you this grimoire when I haven't had a chance to read it, yet?"

"You will never succeed in reading it, because the only two who understand the cipher are my mother and myself," Morrigan insisted.

"Well, I don't know about that." Donal reopened the grimoire and pointed to a jagged symbol at the top of the page. "I'm fairly confident that this one means 'spell,' given how often it makes an appearance on the title ledger."

Morrigan's lips twisted into a petulant little frown. "So the skills of deduction are not lost on you, I see."

"Let me ask you something," he said. "How exactly do I go about getting on your good side?"

"My good side?" Her eyebrow shot up. "If we're to entertain the idea that I have one, how about a compliment, then? Is that too much to ask?"

Donal's jaw hung loose until his words caught up with it. "I already told you I liked you, isn't that a compliment?"

"Don't be stupid."

"You are beautiful," he said through clenched teeth. "You are brilliant and you are dangerous, but you already know this. I don't understand why you need me to voice things you already know."

Her frown turned into a smile. "That will do. Thank you."

There was a slight breeze that served as a reprieve from the sun bearing down on them. "Why is this grimoire of so much interest to you, anyway?" Donal asked. "The magic is useless to anyone who isn't an abomination. Unless you're planning on hosting a demon anytime soon?"

Morrigan's amber colored eyes widened a brief moment before her shock was replaced with suspicion. "How much of the cipher do you understand?"

"Only snippets," he admitted. "But enough for me to be concerned."

"How?" she asked.

Donal smirked. "Given my exceptional social skills, I've had plenty of time to read and decode by myself in the Circle's massive libraries."

"I see," she said. "It could beneficial to conceal your intelligence with the mask of a fool from time to time."

"So why is that you want to know what's in this grimoire?" he asked a second time.

"My mother has always been secretive," she said. She scooted closer to him, closer to the grimoire. "I wish to know what she knows. I wish to become as powerful as I can. I assure you, however, that I have no intention of becoming an abomination."

He nodded.

"What of you?" Morrigan asked. "Why do you wish to read the grimoire?"

"I just like to know," Donal said. "Sometimes possessing knowledge can be more incredible than doing anything with it."

She stared at him. "That's all?"

"That's all." He turned back to the first page. "I can share. Teach me the cipher."

Morrigan nodded. "Very well."

She began to read aloud, then, with her finger trailing the text. They read until the sun dipped below the Frostback Mountains and forced them to set up camp. With their tent set up, Donal attempted to read by the firelight and Morrigan would impatiently correct his errors. When exhaustion overtook them both, they were only a quarter way through the text.

Donal woke in the morning with a crick in his neck and drool on his sleep sack. Morrigan was gone, but the grimoire was still in his tent. He smiled as he readied himself for the day to come.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I've previously visited this scene through Frannie's eyes in the story, "Blood Ties." If you'd rather her perspective than Ms. Silfee's, please have a look at that on my main page.**

She was slumming! Silfee had never been slumming before. It would have been amusing if it weren't so absolutely wretched. The air trapped so far below the surface offered a cool moisture that she found comfortable, but there was grime trapped beneath her fingernails and she had left her powder cake back at camp.

Not that she had much reason to pretty herself up down there. She'd always fancied herself as petite and was unused to leering over a great many people. The dwarven criminals in Jarvia's hideout made her feel like she was slaying children.

Sturdy, bearded children that wielded mauls and axes.

Silfee had been intrigued at the possibility of dwarven politics. Although the knowledge of their practices would no doubt prove useful later on, it had been an utter disappointment. The dwarves were just as cutthroat as any human noble, the difference being that with how contained and hidden away they were beneath the soil, they had lost any degree of subtlety in their games. It was obvious to anyone with half a thought that Bhelen had murdered and framed his way to inheritance, but silly things like honor, tradition and pride kept him from the gallows.

Rendon Howe most assuredly had to make more concessions than Bhelen to feign condolences to the Cousland family. His name soured her thoughts and she could feel her teeth grinding against each other.

She was pleased that despite her height, the metal doorways in Orzammar were tall enough to accommodate their golems. She would have felt ridiculous if she were forced to duck through walkways like some sort of qunari giant. Still, she hoped she wasn't the only one that found the hideout's odor offensive. Spilled ale was not the most favorable perfume to blanket the smell of explosive powder.

Fortunately, the indignities of such a hovel wouldn't be visited upon her much longer. They found the mistress of the estate, alongside that braided degenerate that Frannie was so fond of. Frannie was noticeably crushed. The girl's brown eyes were shining with the start of tears as she stammered out excuses on his behalf, pleaded with him to abandon Jarvia's side and just denied, denied, denied. Silfee wondered if anyone had bet silver with Zevran to whether or not the Leske fellow was going to betray them.

Silfee had read novels like this. Orlesian, usually, although Ferelden authors had stepped up to the task in recent years. She'd often caught Edgar flipping ahead to the tawdry bits when he thought no one was looking.

Leske, for his part was unmoved. Something about survival and an empty belly. Silfee could relate. There were many a days her own belly had growled with an embarrassing fury all so that the seamstress wouldn't be forced to add another panel to her corset. That steel boning was dreadful! The edges had to be filed down before being attached to the corset, lest any unfortunate lady find out that the boning could be just as sharp and as deadly as any shiv. Silfee grinned; brand on his face aside, for all of his boot licking and fluid loyalties that Leske would have fit in perfectly with the majority of the despicably spineless gentry.

The poor sot made the ill-fated decision to fight for the Jarvia woman. It would seem that the Orlesian romance novel that was being written in Silfee's mind had taken a dire turn and had transformed into a Tevinter tragedy piece. Those Tevinters simple weren't happy unless they were absolutely miserable.

So they were to battle, then? How tiresome. Surely those dwarves realized that Silfee's group possessed a golem? It was comical to see so many of those bearded children swarm Shale as if the very concept of outnumbering the golem meant that the golem would have to surrender. Shale would bring its fist down upon their heads; sometimes there would be a loud crack of bone if their armor held up, other times the force would send bits of dwarf spewing out to decorate the remaining carta members.

It wouldn't have been Silfee's first choice in redesigning the estate's interiors, but honestly with how little she had to work with anything was an improvement.

"The room is trapped!" Zevran called out to them. Maker, that elf had a gorgeous smile! He dove headlong into the room and danced across tripwires as he went straight for Leske. Silfee didn't know much about Antivan customs, but it seemed apparent that their dances required more precision and flexibility than the remigold.

Silfee and Alistair stayed just outside the doorway and played "whack-a-dwarf" with their shields if one felt the need to retreat. Frannie was useless and stood there in disbelief, so Wynne and Leliana stepped up as her defenders. Nema's hands crackled with electricity as she aimed them at Jarvia.

The damned, fool elf nearly electrocuted them all in that enclosed space. Everyone inside the room fell to the floor in a fit of spasms, their companions included.

Alistair's breathing became quick, panicked pants as he stared incredulously through the doorway. Silfee stopped him from dashing through.

"Can you see all the traps?" she asked.

"No, but I-" His brow became more furrowed as he stared through the doorway. What was that sound he made in the back of his throat? Was he whining? "They're hurt. I can't just leave them there."

"So you wish to wander in there and set off a trap so you can lay injured alongside them?" She laughed.

"I can't just leave them there!"

Jarvia recovered, first. She staggered to her feet and with a swift kick to Leliana's ribs sent the bard sprawling out of the crime lord's way. Jarvia was limping toward Frannie. Apparently, there was a personal score to settle between the two of them.

"No!" Alistair bolted headlong into the room. Oh well. All dead save for Silfee Cousland would be the epitome of a Tevinter tragedy. He was fortunate to avoid stumbling over any tripwires in his initial charge.

There was no way Alistair could make it in time. Jarvia already hovered atop Frannie with her blade raised. Silfee supposed she would see firsthand just how sturdy dwarves were. A shame too, because Frannie had always been relatively pleasant.

But then, something peculiar happened. A strange sort of wheezing gasp left Jarvia's lips and her eyes grew wide. The sharp end of a sword was jutting through the woman's chest in a manner that left Silfee snickering. Every battle maiden knew that the only way to maintain a perfect bosom was to make sure that it was safely tucked away in armor during a skirmish. She couldn't decide if it had been cockiness or just plain foolishness on Jarvia's part to allow such a vast expanse of flesh to remain uncovered.

The sword was wrenched out of Jarvia's back with a wet pop and she undoubtedly expired soon after she hit the ground. Her murderer and Frannie's savior stood behind the woman's corpse. Their other dwarven companion, Faelon. Or was it Faeron? The beardy one as opposed to the button nosed one.

Faeron wiped his longsword down with a rag.

"Leske?" It didn't even sound like Frannie. Silfee supposed that's what electrocution would do to somebody. "Leske? I didn't..."

Everyone was slowly coming to. Rubbing their faces, coughing, pushing themselves up to their feet. Frannie had crawled over to the still body that was face first down on the stone ground. The girl was trembling and looked nothing like the hearty, unshakeable dwarves Silfee had been told of as a child.

"No, please..." The man, Leske, was dead, and when Frannie rolled him over so that he was face up, Leske went from being obviously dead to being very obviously dead. His throat slit, there was congealing blood on the tip of his nose and upper lip where it had pooled on the ground around the wound. "No, no, no, no..!"

Vacant eyes, ashen face, still chest. It was done, despite Frannie's protests. Nema had already begun a heated argument with Faeron, but Silfee was fairly certain that everyone else was still preoccupied with Frannie's heartbreak. She had taken to shaking Leske by the shoulders and his head tipped back in an unnatural fashion that wouldn't have been possible had all of his arteries still been attached.

"Get up!" Frannie's voice became more shrill as the tears began to flow in earnest. "Wake up! Open your eyes! Wynne! Wynne, you have to fix him! You can't let him- he can't- Please!"

It had grown beyond idle curiosity and now discomfort was setting in. Zevran began to loot the bodies and averted his gaze from Frannie, soaked in her friend's blood. Alistair kept moving his mouth, but every time he thought he had discovered the right phrase, he instead just exhaled air.

Wynne was the one who managed to pull the girl away from the corpse. The old mage had the patience of a chantry mother as she gathered Frannie in her arms and stroked the girl's hair. Wynne sat on the floor and rocked Frannie and that's when she made that noise, sobbing into the older woman's shoulder, as if she too were dying.

Deep, low and from the bowels of grief. Not quite a sob, but not so much a scream either. Silfee knew the sound well. It once escaped Edgar as he cradled Oren's tiny, broken body against his chest. It made her want to drink Howe's blood, just as the Warden's drank in the taint.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Frannie?"

"We need to get back to Bhelan," she said. Frannie cupped a hand to her cheek and smeared more blood. Wynne helped her to her feet.

"Bhelan?" Faeron said. "You're sun addled if you think I'd allow the throne go to anyone but Harrowmont."

"What?" Puffy faced and with red eyes, Frannie was in no position to fight. "You can't. Don't you dare, I won't let you do this."

"We haven't made a decision, yet," Nema snapped. "I've told both of you that, already."

"After everything he's done, you want to reward him?" Faeron growled.

Frannie stormed over and met the man eye to eye. "My sister's in the castle," she said. "What happens to her if Harrowmont becomes king? What happens to her son, your nephew if Harrowmont becomes king?"

"Brilliant," Nema snarled over Faeron's would be retort. "Both of you are letting your emotions cloud your judgment and are therefore, unreliable."

"So we should listen to you, then?" Faeron stretched his shoulders and became as large and intimidating as his stature would allow.

"There's a jail in this estate," Nema said. She pointed in the general direction of the cells. "Put them in it."

"What?" Alistair exclaimed. "They're our friends, not criminals."

"We need a king on Orzammar's throne." Nema's eyes narrowed. "They are on opposing sides and will only serve to distract and delay us. Place them in the cells until we can resolve this and then we'll release them."

"And if we happen to die in the Deep Roads?" Alistair demanded.

"Zevran will stay with them," Nema replied. "If he hears nothing in five days, he can assume we're dead and release them."

"Wait." Alistair held his hands out. "You want to trust the assassin with the well being of our friends?"

Zevran pouted. "I assure you I can be quite loving when required."

"Would you rather the assassin be involved in dwarven politics?" Nema asked.

"Point taken," Alistair muttered.

"Well!" Zevran clapped his hands together. "Come with me, my little jailbirds. I shall escort you to your new quarters." He, Faeron and Frannie trudged back down a hallway toward the jail under the wary stares of their companions.

"The First Enchanter would not approve of your methods, Nema," Wynne told her.

"Due to the First Enchanter's better judgment, the Circle was swarming with abominations," Nema replied. "You'll excuse me if I don't consider his approval when I act."

That silenced Wynne for the moment, but judging by the tightness around the other woman's jaw, Silfee would wager that the conversation was far from over. They exited the hideout in silence, careful not to trip over corpses. There would be so much for her to tell Edgar when she saw him next.


	16. Chapter 16

Chairs were never the right size. The bar, Tapsters, catered to its dwarven population, so the seats were wider, and the legs were shorter. It made Nema feel like she was squatting above a chamber pot when she sat. Not that it was an issue of location, necessarily. On the surface, beyond the reaches of Orzammar, chairs tended to be made for humans, even in the Alienage.

Silfee seemed to be making the best of things; she had insisted they order a round of drinks lest they offend their hosts by loitering. The thimble of ale in Nema's fingers stayed untouched as she stared at the bar patrons. The golem, Shale was garnering their group more attention than Nema would have liked, but there wasn't much she could do about it at the moment. Shale stood, hardly moving, at the very end of the bar.

The barmaid, Cora, was more open to talking once their coin had been plunked down, but the exchange was making Nema's nose rankle. Idle gossip and local rumors, most of which were unhelpful. Leliana and Silfee were reveling in it, even Wynne appeared to be enjoying her ale. Nema had never expected the elder mage to have such a taste for the drink, but upon consideration, it made a certain sort of sense. A person would have to snuff out their thoughts with alcohol to graciously accept a lifetime in the Circle, wouldn't they?

Their path was clear, but the end result was still up for debate. Rescue the Paragon, Branka, from the Deep Roads. In return, Branka would voice her support of a king, whether it would be Bhelen or Harrowmont was currently undecided. Nema would just have to grit her teeth and ignore how vexing it was that the dwarves felt their own petty squabbles were of higher importance than a Blight. Perhaps the Wardens should have walked away from those fools and allowed the darkspawn to swallow them all whole. Then, maybe the displaced survivors would comprehend the need for action.

Then again, the humans would probably be kind enough to grant the dwarves an Alienage. All the elves could just go find their Dalish brethren. And the Dalish? Well, Dalish weren't really people by human standards, were they? Nema hated politics.

Alistair sat as primly as he could on the edge of his seat. His discomfort was evident on his face as well as with the way his knees jutted up as he sat. Nema accepted that she, Alistair and Shale certainly weren't winning themselves any friends with their charming social graces. She found it frustrating that in order for people to listen to her she couldn't simply just be right. Nema had to be polite, too. Well, when they were all polite and dead, then maybe she could actually accomplish something.

All things considered, perhaps it had been wise to bring Silfee Cousland along, after all. The noblewoman had that light, practiced laugh flitting across the walls of the pub as she chatted with the dwarven patrons. She even had the audacity to comb her fingers through one gentleman's beard as she said her goodbyes. Amazing that despite being taller and more slender, despite her inherent vapidness, Silfee was able to get along swimmingly with a people renown for a depth she could only dream to possess.

"Well, my votes on Bhelen," Silfee announced with a self-satisfied smirk.

"This I have got to hear." Alistair dragged his chair over to the stone table Silfee was lounging at.

"Yes," Wynne said. "What are your reasons, child?"

"A poll, perhaps?" Leliana suggested. "The majority that you've spoken with are in favor of Bhelen?"

"Oh, Maker, no." The delicate braids that decorated Silfee's hair bobbed as she laughed. "The majority would have Harrowmont lead them to extinction."

Alistair rudely gestured a hand at her as he shook his head. "Typical. The people want one way, so you suggest the exact opposite. That is so like you."

"I'm comfortable with whatever way you want it, Alistair," she replied.

Silfee's influence must have been waning. Nema noted that the only redness in Alistair's face was due to irritation and not embarrassment. "What I want is to best serve these people and their wishes so that we have the strongest alliance possible," he said.

Silfee shrugged. "My vote's still for Bhelen."

"Why do you favor Bhelen over Harrowmont?" Leliana asked. "You still have not explained your reasons."

"Harrowmont is a good man," Silfee said. She leaned back in her chair and curled her legs up beneath her. "Everyone here speaks highly of him. But Orzammar does not need a good man. Orzammar needs a good king. They're surrounded by darkspawn and constantly under siege. Perhaps if darkspawn could be placated with words then Harrowmont would be a suitable choice, but alas, I've yet to meet one that's interested in talking."

Maker, save them all, Silfee Cousland was speaking cold, rational sense.

"What's so wrong with wanting peace?" Alistair asked.

Silfee leaned forward and patted his cheek. "You cannot always negotiate and acquiesce your way to peace. A leader needs to appreciate that sometimes a show of force is an appropriate measure. With darkspawn, a show of force is always the appropriate measure."

"And you think Bhelen will be an effective leader?" Leliana asked.

"He is interesting," Silfee said. "He, without provocation, murdered a brother, framed another and then led his father to an early grave. Perhaps he did it just for the glory of the title, 'king,' but he talks of reclaiming lost thaigs by abolishing the caste system."

"The caste system is rubbish, anyway," Alistair said with a shake of his head. "I don't see why that's a selling point."

"Are you really so simple?" Silfee laughed. Tinkling bells and Andraste's grace. "Why don't humans just tear down the gates of the Alienages? Let the elves fight as brothers against the darkspawn, perhaps put one atop Cailan's empty throne?"

"I still think it's rubbish," Alistair informed his thimble of ale.

Nema had let them blather on long enough. It sounded as though Silfee had convinced the majority and the more she continued to talk, the more she gathered a crowd. They needed to go to the Deep Roads and they needed to crown a king.

"Hey, I heard about you Grey Wardens, coming from the surface, great crisis in the world." His voice was gruff and he smelled like a brewery. A dwarf with flame red hair staggered toward them. "I figured you'd be the ones, you know, who could help me find Branka."

Alistair attempted to very obviously ignore the dwarf, while Wynne politely sipped at her ale.

The dwarf waved a hand at them. "But I guess you're just like all the rest."

"Our only concern is raising allies against the Blight," Nema said.

Her answer didn't satisfy him. "You don't need a king to face a Blight," Maker, he reeked, "you need a Paragon!" He began to gesture madly with his hands as if he could wave away his drunkenness or waft understanding at them. "The Assembly elects them, but they're higher than the Assembly. They become nobles, but they're more than anyone born to a house."

Nema's first finger tapped along the side of her drink. "Which is why we're going to travel through the Deep Roads to find her."

"They're what every dwarf with a spine not made out of soap dreams of being!" he bellowed. The dwarf swayed at her and then blinked. "Wait. What?"

"We are leaving for the Deep Roads," Nema said.

"Really?" That sobered him up.

She stared at him. "Yes."

"Well shave my back and call me an elf!" He slapped his hand on the table and laughed. "Name's Oghren, and if you ever heard of me before, it's probably all been about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong." He aimed his grin at Alistair. "And that's mostly true. But the part they never say is how I'm the only one still trying to save our only Paragon. If you're looking for Branka, I'm the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty, sodding helpful finding her."

"He would certainly need more than a clean shave to pass as an elf, don't you think?" Silfee giggled. Nema felt her hands tighten into fists.

"If you know so much about where she is, why haven't you gone after her yourself?" Alistair demanded.

"It doesn't matter," Nema said. "We're down a few people due to their own stupidity. Oghren, is it?"

The dwarf nodded. "Aye."

"You can come with us so long as your information is good," she told him. "Otherwise, the Deep Roads will take care of you."

His grin wasn't kind. "I've been waiting to hear that for two sodding years. Let's leave before you all sober up and change your minds."


	17. Chapter 17

Mythal bless them all, the forest had given way to Redcliffe. The mabari had served them well, despite the numerous times its master had made Rastaban think otherwise.

"I once loved a girl who could charm down the sun," Edgar sang out. "Was perfect in every part!"

"Odd," was all the qunari would say.

Adele shrugged. "I think it's a drinking song."

"We have no drink," Sten replied.

Edgar's laughter upset his rhythm, so when he started up again, he began to sway to the beat. "She could banish my cares with a smile, but instead she has broken my heart!" He leaned down and patted the dog's flank. "I think my notes are wrong, Chester. Help me out, will you?"

With a wag of its tail, the dog howled piteously.

"Oh, wandering eye, a wanderer I,  
I wander and nowhere I'll stay.  
Oh, wandering eye, a wanderer I,  
for wandering I wandered away!"

Rastaban felt his jaw tighten. "I thought we left the bard back in Orzammar," he said.

"We need a bard to enjoy ballads?" Edgar laughed. "Bards simply remind us of the things that make life so enjoyable."

The more Edgar tried to befriend them all, the less Rastaban liked him. Edgar with his perfect nose and unmarred face, with soft hands that had never known a hard day's labor. Perhaps if Rastaban had also lived as gilded a life as Edgar, he too could sing idly as the world burned around them.

"It was my fifteenth year," Edgar was saying. "And so my brother Fergus set me up in a room with this Orlesian woman. It was all to teach me the lute and the art of storytelling, of course, but I'm sure you can all see what it looked like. Fergus had her brought to the estates in secret due to her being from Orlais, and what with that scandal of Silfee's we were already concealing, Mother would have been livid if I also started up gossip so soon after that."

"You play the lute?" Adele asked.

"Maker, no." He grinned like a child. "My fingers are far too indelicate to perform adequately. But I did have an interest to learn. When Father found out, because he always finds out, he furiously insisted that I be a man and send her away. But Fergus defended me. He said, 'He'll be a man, when he's a man. For now, let the boy enjoy himself'."

That Edgar still spoke of the deceased teryn in the present tense stilled Rastaban's tongue. The Dalish man had more important things to consider. Redcliffe was diseased and wrong. It wasn't the darkspawn, Ostagar had taught him that darkspawn felt differently.

There was an excitement with darkspawn. Something unspoken that began at the base of his spine and spiraled up behind his ribs until it had wrapped around his heart and upset its natural beat. Rastaban liked fighting darkspawn. Facing them was facing the flaws in himself. They were a warped mirror, the other side of an Eluvian. They were everything wrong with him and he had been given the okay to destroy them. Perhaps that was what the taint did, provide the Wardens with an insatiable bloodlust for their ruined brethren.

Brethren. Some of these thoughts as of late did not sit well with Rastaban.

It did not matter. Redcliffe's poison was not darkspawn. Something else was afoot. Twisted, gnarled roots in the soil that led to nowhere. The quiet in the air, the absence of birds. He had to think. He had to-

"Teagan!" Elgar'nan, he would silence Edgar with violence if necessary.

The mabari yipped as excited as a pup. It, alongside its master, galloped toward the group of men coming into view. Up the path to Redcliffe just beyond the small bridge, stood a small convoy of knights surrounding a regal looking man. The knights had their swords drawn by the time Edgar had reached the nobleman and clapped his hands on his shoulders.

"Bann Teagan!" Edgar exclaimed. "Bann of Rainesfere."

Teagan blinked, a bit startled, but he motioned for his guard to drop their arms. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's me," Edgar said. "Edgar. Edgar Cousland. Son of Teryn Bryce Cousland. It's been years!"

"Edgar..." Teagan let the name sink into the air as he thought. Recognition crept across his features and he smiled warmly. "It has been years! You've filled out, friend. How is your sister?"

"Silfee is in Orzammar." Edgar let his hands drop from the other man's shoulders. "She is going to secure dwarven aid against the Blight for the Grey Wardens."

"The Grey Wardens?" Teagan raised an eyebrow. "So am I to assume you are also a Warden? Or is your visit to Redcliffe due to some other pleasantry?"

"Silfee's not a Warden," Edgar said. He placed a hand across his breast. "I am a Warden. Rastaban here is also a Warden, as is Adele. And Sten? Well, he's a qunari. I suppose you don't need to be a Warden when just being a qunari is impressive enough."

There was a slight, barely detectable twitch to Sten's nostril.

Teagan nodded them on and the group began to climb up the path into the village. "If you're here to see my brother, that might unfortunately be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill. I've only just arrived so that I could be at his bedside."

"In part," Edgar told him. "We promised our friend, Sten here, that we would locate his sword. We've tracked it all the way to Redcliffe."

Simple thatched homes came into view as they entered the village. It appeared to be a mundane, bustling hub complete with a chantry in the very center and smoke billowing out of the smithy. Houses pushed out onto the docks of Lake Calenhad and the people teemed with a very typical sort of activity.

Everything looked fine, but it smelled off. When Rastaban stuck his tongue out in the air, he tasted death. As the sun began to dip behind the rust colored cliffs, there was a strange, whispering promise in the wind.

"Arlessa Isolde was desperate enough to send out Eamon's Knights in search of Andraste's ashes," Teagan told them. "I even sent out a plea for remedies and healing magic throughout Ferelden. I was surprised when I received no reply from Highever."

"Well, that's because..." Edgar faltered. His carefree smile broke and he reached for the comfort of his dog. "Does no one know of Rendon Howe's coup against my family?"

"A coup?" Teagan's face darkened. "What did that fool man do?"

The dog whimpered as Edgar pulled it closer to his side. "Assassins sent in the night," he said. "They murdered us while we slept. Silfee and I only just escaped and that was because Mother gave her life to guard our retreat."

"They killed everyone?" Teagan asked. "Even Oren?"

"Mother, Father, Oriana..." Edgar's eyes squeezed shut. "Oren didn't make it."

That gave Teagan pause. "Oh. I am deeply sorry, Edgar."

In the purple twilight, their faces all looked like ashen specters. There was an anxiety wound up like a tightened spring at the tip of Rastaban's fingers. Something was wrong and his body kept flinching with the anticipation of an attack. It was near tangible, like a syncopated thudding, like the pounding of footsteps.

A pounding of footsteps, in a cloud of hate. They raced across the bridge from the castle and toward the windmill. Hollow shrieks swallowed up their path. Rastaban thumbed the hilts of his blades. Elgar'nan would grant him strength.

Teagan eyed Sten. "You came to Redcliffe for a lost sword?" he said. "It would be wise of you to find it."


	18. Chapter 18

"Well, I didn't mean to kill him," Silfee exclaimed. "He mentioned shiny things and I simply thought that we could trade for gems."

She wrinkled her nose at the crazed dwarf, not yet cold, at her feet. The streaks of blood left behind on the front panel of her armor darkened the brown leather as she wiped her hands hastily against it. "How was I to know he'd react so violently?" she asked. "How was I to know his shiny things were rocks and worms?"

Silfee was beautiful, Alistair would grant her that much. Even surrounded by the horrors of the Deep Road and a corpse at her feet, she managed to look flawlessly radiant. She and her brother both possessed those ocean-colored eyes that could have only come from many generations worth of selective inbreeding. Alistair snickered to himself.

These past months had him surrounded by many beautiful women. This must have been the fantasy that his fifteen year old self had promised so many years ago. Ask, and ye shall receive, he thought wryly. A pity he hadn't considered the personalities attached to such beautiful women.

"Bah!" Their new dwarven guide Oghren, shook his head. "He was a bloody scavenger, good as sodding gone."

"That's a little unfair," Leliana said.

"Word has it you can only survive down here by eating the darkspawn dead," Oghren replied. "It brings the taint. Turns their brain to sewage, but it hides them from the darkspawn."

Silfee's eyebrows shot upward. "That's disgusting!"

And that was how it had been since they left the safety of Orzammar. Duncan had spoken of the Deep Roads, of how he was to return to them after Ostagar. These Deep Roads were not quite what Alistair had imagined.

Death lurking around every corner, yes, Alistair had anticipated that much. But he had thought- had wanted, them to be so much more majestic than they actually turned out to be. The Deep Roads of Alistair's fancy were much more impressive.

So many roads had collapsed in on themselves and lay forgotten. Somewhere, beyond the monuments of Paragons desecrated by its tainted denizens, the Deep Roads were supposed to hold the glory of the dwarven empire. It was hard to believe that long ago there would have been merchants dragging their carts along those roads thick with cobwebs and soil.

He knew they weren't going in circles only because of his ability to sense the roving groups of darkspawn. This was the land where Grey Wardens came to die? He didn't see any signs of Grey Wardens anywhere.

There was an unsettling sort of cold that came with being that far underground.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Have you seen any signs of Branka, yet?"

"I can see Branka all over this place." Oghren nodded. He motioned toward the pockmarked walls with his axe. "She always took chips from the walls at regular intervals when she was in a new tunnel- check their composition." He looked over at them with beleaguered eyes.

"I really didn't mean to kill him," Silfee continued. She knelt beside the corpse and patted it down. "It's beyond me why anyone would fight to the death over a few rocks and a tatty diary."

That caught Oghren's attention. "Diary?" He stormed over to Silfee and wrenched the battered book from Silfee's hands.

"Hey!"

"Stuff it, babe," Oghren barked. "This is Branka's journal." He feverishly began to flip through the dessicated pages.

Nema walked toward him and tried to take the book. Oghren yanked it hard from her grip and they were rewarded with the rip of paper. He continued to read while Nema scowled.

"The Anvil's not in Ortan Thaig," Oghren murmured. He scratched at his beard as he read. "They went south, to the Dead Trenches."

"The Dead Trenches?" Nema asked.

"Aye," Oghren exhaled. Then he chuckled softly as his eyes crossed a particular passage in the diary. "Branka was thinking about me! I knew she still cared! Old softy." He snapped the book shut and looked up. "Makes sense. If she was still here, she'd have sentries out by now."

"Then let's get going," Nema said. She stalked forward, past Silfee and the dead dwarf, and headed toward a bridge carved from stone.

Oghren laughed. "Couldn't have said it better, myself." He trotted off after Nema.

Wynne and Leliana diligently followed while Silfee just shrugged and sidled up next to Alistair. Something about her laughter did not set him at ease. He'd given up on making sense of the noblewoman's actions. So long as they could curtail any of Silfee's cutthroat leanings, the woman was too distracted by jewelry and other idle fancies to be of any real detriment. At least, Alistair hoped she couldn't be of any real detriment.

Of course, once upon a time, Alistair had hoped his father wasn't who everyone said he was. Hope was a dastardly thing that didn't require any basis in reality.

The golem, Shale, stood frozen at a crumbling sign marker at the crossroads that Oghren had led them to. The golem's eyes glowed softly as it tilted its head.

"The Dead Trenches are this way," Oghren said. He pointed in the opposite direction the golem was staring.

"I know this place," Shale said.

"You've been here, before?" Leliana asked. She was the only one that dared to go near the golem, and now she gently rested a hand on Shale's arm.

Shale blinked. "I do not know. I suppose I must have. I do know this place, but I do not remember."

"The sign's illegible," Oghren said. "That path leads to 'Cad-something.' It's a dead end that's been lost in time."

The bard-turned-chantry-girl-turned-bard-again, ever the loony, smiled warmly. "Would you like to explore that area? Perhaps some memories would return to you."

"Yes," Shale said. "Yes, I think I would."

"Oh, great," Alistair snapped. He could feel his nostrils twitch. "How many more of our friends are we going to send away?"

"You think that they asked my permission before they went charging off for a sword?" Nema stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was Faeron and Frannie's idea to be locked up in a prison," he replied.

Poor Frannie. Alistair wished- well, he didn't know what he wished, maybe just that there was something he could do. Their friendship so far was a series of failures he visited upon her. First at the Tower of Ishal, when she stood, confused with an arrow sticking out of her chest and then with her dead friend at the carta's hideout. Now she was locked away, like a convict, left with nothing but her memories to stew over.

All he could think of was that rose he found at Ostagar. Alistair had found it during the crippling quiet that only occurred on the eve of battle. It stood, defiantly in an open field, full, red, and perfect. He knew it would have been trampled by soldiers, mabari and darkspawn, so he took it for safekeeping. Instead, its fate was to wilt, wither and die in his travel sack over the course of their journeys, with Alistair unsure as to why he had plucked it in the first place.

Nema's breath was hot on his throat as she enunciated her words in a hard whisper. "You will not question me in front of the others." She turned to the rest of the group and announced, "What would you have us do, instead, Alistair?"

"I don't know." He raked a hand through his hair. "All I know is that I'm sick of seeing us splinter off more and more as we progress. If we can't stay united, we don't stand a chance against this Blight."

"They say the darkspawn nest in the Dead Trenches," Oghren said. "Whole herds of 'em. But if that's where Branka went, then that's where I'm going."

"If these Dead Trenches are so dangerous," Wynne had a small smile on her face as she spoke, "I think it would be sensible for us to all go together. Would it be acceptable, Shale, if we find Branka first, and then come back to explore this part of the Deep Roads? I promise to personally accompany you if you'll agree."

Shale stood for a long moment and then finally, it nodded. "That is acceptable."

"Thank you." Wynne nodded back and then walked toward the path to the Dead Trenches. She looked back at the rest of the group. "Well?"

As they fell in line behind Wynne, it struck Alistair as odd. Duncan had explained the taint to him once. The Wardens accepted it, a thankless gift, so that they could overcome the darkspawn. Alistair could feel them all, the darkspawn, stronger than any force he had encountered on the surface. His being a Grey Warden meant that he would never be caught unaware, that he could always pick his battles, that there would never be a fear of the unknown.

Ahead of him, Leliana quietly hummed a tune. Silfee picked cobwebs from her hair and Shale trudged onward, expressionless. Oghren looked almost excited, worlds closer to his wife than he had been in two years and Wynne? Well, Wynne was Wynne. Only Nema seemed to have the sense of what they were walking into.

Nema, with her eyes so dark blue they were almost black. Nema, with her golden skin and golden hair and her tiny mouth hardened into a frown. Yes, Alistair certainly had no shortage of beautiful women. Nema had her fist gripped tightly around her staff until her knuckles blanched. She too, could feel the numbers of darkspawn swell and overflow. Near painful in their numbers, they flooded his senses, scratching and chittering at the base of his skull.

No fear of the unknown. They knew exactly what they were walking into.

Alistair screamed and brought his shield up as the first wave of darkspawn descended upon them. Oghren's obscenities sang through the air like a revelry. And as they fought, painted with the blood of their attackers, the darkspawn began to fall and vanish from the rear and flank of the onslaught. Maybe they were scared and running, maybe they performing elegant swan dives off the cliffs into the molten magma below, maybe there was a dinner party they were late for. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but years of training told Alistair to focus on the enemies in front of him and worry about all else later.

Only when the last creature fell to Shale's fist did Alistair realize that they weren't alone. Haggard dwarves, some tattooed, all of them stony and intimidating, surrounded them. Their indifference made it unclear to Alistair whether he should sheath his weapon or not. Oghren began to laugh, bitterness laced into his relief.

"I'll be a nug's ass," Oghren cackled. "We're in Legion territory now, folks."


	19. Chapter 19

The Legion of the Dead. Orzammar's first and last line of defense. The dwarves' little, open secret.

They were the first welcome sight in a long while. Nema was impressed.

They were gruff and didn't waste time on pleasantries. On the borders of the fallen fortress of Bownammar the men methodically checked the integrity of their armor and weapons. Some quickly attended to repairs while others passed a wedge of lichen cheese through the ranks so that men could break off pieces with crusts of bread and chew while they waited for the next wave of darkspawn to attack.

This, Nema thought. This was the perfect machine for defeating the Blight. Their armor was a cobbled together mishmash of old and new parts, all in the name of survival, of victory. With their faces masked by garish tattoos, the Legion of the Dead was resolute in their task. They only paused from their vows to return their fallen brethren to the stone.

What kind of leadership, what kind of circumstances did these men endure so that their loyalty was that unwavering? If Nema could learn their practices, she would eagerly apply them to the surface troops.

The man named Kardol was chosen to speak for them. The umber triangles painted over his eye sockets made his eyes look sunken and dead, but there was a certain glint to his actual eyes that told Nema that perhaps the man had possessed a great amount of humor long ago.

"Atrast vala, Grey Warden," he said. "I've never seen one of your kind in the Deep Roads."

He knew who they were? That made Nema smile. "But yet you don't look surprised."

"In the Legion of the Dead, we abandon our lives to be free of fear, free of hopeful blindness. The coming Blight is obvious to us."

Finally. Someone with a sense of the urgency they faced. Unfortunate that they had to first be neck-deep in darkspawn for anyone to take notice. Kardol spared a glance for her party. Wynne busied herself making the dying men more comfortable, Leliana made a mostly unsuccessful attempt at small talk. Oghren stood apart from the Legion out of discomfort, perhaps respect.

Kardol raised an eyebrow. "The surprise is not that you have come, but that you have come in so small a number."

Perhaps Kardol should speak with the Assembly. Or Loghain for that matter. She was so sick of dealing with stagnation and self-possessed fools. She had not expected rational thinking from any creature found out in the Deep Roads.

"What do you want here, Warden?" Kardol asked.

Brusque and to the point. Nema could appreciate that. "I am Nema Surana," she said. "And I am looking for allies."

Kardol appeared less impressed than she. "That's an odd tactic, recruiting from the frontline." He offered a ghost of a smirk and then she could truly see how well his humor had lasted. "The darkspawn pitch their camps in our tunnels between your 'Blights," you know."

Damn him, he was right. It didn't stop the word 'bastard' from ringing in her ears, however.

The more they talked, the more obstinate he became. The most frustrating part was how Nema understood his refusals completely. Kardol wasn't some politician worried about being usurped; he was fighting because his people were dying. While her people were going extinct due to a culture of submission and wombs that readily accepted human seed, his were being lost to politics and sharing land with darkspawn. The elves faced a more insidious death, but she could not fault him for putting his own people before others when she actively did the same.

It still burned that he refused to share the Legion's secrets with her. To die in the eyes of their brothers so they may fight without fear. A powerful motivator to anyone who would believe it. A most suitable way to offer redemption to prisoners that would otherwise be executed on the surface. To say more invited judgment, he told her. Or worse, imitation. Had she been that obvious with her intent? Perhaps Nema had simply not been the first to seek the knowledge.

Kardol bid them good luck then, as they left. He spoke it plainly and in a way that may have sounded patronizing by anyone else. But he was one of the few men who knew what they truly faced and knew just how much luck would be involved for them all to return unscathed.

They crossed the precarious and crumbling bridge into Bownammar as the Legion steadfastly held their line. It was amusing to see Oghren so at odds without a single biting remark on the tip of his tongue. The fortress' massive gates had been sealed by warriors past, but the darkspawn had carved their own entrance into the walls. Nema was greeted by their gnashing teeth and spittle-kissed mouths.

Alistair and Oghren charged forward with their weapons raised. Alistair, she could understand. He as well as Shale and herself were immune to the taint. It seemed daunting at times to consider that for the others, even a scratch of a darkspawn claw could be their undoing. That they rushed willingly into battle was sometimes difficult for Nema to comprehend.

When a creature swung its blade toward Leliana's open flank, Alistair lunged in the way and readily took the blow to his hamstring in her stead. As he fell, Leliana dropped her bow and slashed the darkspawn's throat with a large sweeping motion of her dagger while her bow clattered on the ground. Was that the Grey Wardens' burden, then? Or just chivalrous silliness? It was certainly more notable than Oghren swatting at both Wynne's and then Silfee's rump when either woman ventured too close to his axe.

The nice thing about being so deep beneath the surface was that they were that much closer to lyrium. It made the death at Nema's fingertips that much more powerful, that much more spastic. She wondered if Wynne could feel it, as well. The darkspawn crackled and shrieked as they were enveloped in the flames that Nema willed at them.

Shale appeared to be a bit too comfortable down at these depths. Golems were designed with destruction in mind, Nema supposed. It stood there, happily murdering darkspawn with its fists. Sometimes it would pick one up and tear its head off, all the while announcing that it wished there were bird-shaped genlocks.

It must have been soothing to know that those creatures had no redemption. The best one could do was kill them before they killed you. No one would stay Shale's arm and say, "Wait. I want to question this one," or say that the darkspawn attacked out of fear or desperation or speak of its family.

"Alistair!" Leliana was on her knees beside him. "Do not try to get up."

"It's just a scratch," he insisted. "My armor took most of the damage."

"You're bleeding."

Wynne made her way to them and knelt down. She immediately pressed her hands along Alistair's thigh. "You are lucky your armor is so durable. I was amazed when your leg didn't come clean off."

Alistair squirmed in the rust-colored dust. "That tickles!"

"Hush."

Wynne's healing was far more sophisticated than anything Nema had ever managed to conjure. One of the first spells that every apprentice learned was that blast of cooling comfort that Wynne now used, but her years of training expanded on that first basic spell. She wove blue threads of magic atop his leg that gently pulled flesh back together, while simultaneously numbing the agony of such an injury. One side effect of such magic was the not quite unpleasant tingling that was making Alistair chuckle uncomfortably.

"It's going to scar, isn't it?" he muttered. "I just know it's going to scar."

"Perhaps," Wynne murmured.

"Blast it." His mouth curled up like he was going to giggle, but then he winced instead. "Tell me I'll still be pretty, even with a scar. Do this for me, Wynne?"

Her voice was stern, but there was mirth in her face. "Let me concentrate, Alistair."

"Today, you are my hero," Leliana said. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

"Alright." Wynne dropped her hands and inhaled. "It will be tender in the days to come, but you should be able to walk on it."

"What would I do without you, Wynne?" Alistair asked.

"Crawl, most likely." She smiled.

Leliana helped Alistair to his feet.

"First day, they come and catch everyone.  
Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.  
Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.  
Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.  
Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.  
Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.  
Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.  
Eighth day, we hate it as she is violated.  
Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.  
Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."

Nema could feel her hackles raise. Silfee cocked her head to one side as she listened to the recitation, but Oghren just silently pointed to the tunnels of Bownammar. They quietly funneled into the twisting trails of the darkspawn stronghold and followed the voice.

The creature they found was no darkspawn. The dwarven woman looked different than the scavenger they found in Ortan Thaig. Her features were sunken and blisters adorned her skin. She sat untouched by darkspawn in a room that had sacks of flesh sprouting out of the wall. The dwarf dry-washed her hands and repeated her poem like a prayer, her body rocking with each new day announced.

"Is this darkspawn corruption?" Silfee asked. She circled around the dwarf, unable to conceal her grimace. "It looks... different."

Some of the sacks on the wall pulsed.

"Corruption! The men did that!" The woman's hands flailed up suddenly. She was feverish and much too pale. "Their wounds festered and their minds left. They are like dogs, marched ahead, the first to die."

Her hands fell limp at her side. "Not us. Not me. Not Laryn. We are not cut. We are fed. Friends and flesh and blood and bile and... and all I could do was wish that Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so that I would be spared." She couldn't make eye contact with anyone. Her shoulders jerked up as if to protect her from from their stares. "But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did Branka endure?"

Branka? So they were getting closer.

"Branka!" Oghren barked. He grabbed the woman's shoulders and shook her. "Where is she, Hespith?"

Hespith looked dead at him, then. The blood vessels around her eyes were red and ugly. "I will not speak of her! Of what she did, of what we have become! I will not turn!"

Oghren continued to hold Hespith, close enough so she could see her own angry gaze reflected off the glint of his teeth. Her voice grew softer as her shoulders went slack, defeated. "Her lover and I could not turn her," she said. "Forgive her... but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become."

"A lover in the dark," Silfee laughed. "No wonder she left Oghren."

Oghren sucked air in between his teeth. "This explains a lot. Course, if I knew she had those interests, I could've made some adjustments."

"There is too much darkness here," Hespith ground out. "The Anvil, it is in the darkness, surrounded by it, pulling Branka in. No, I swore not to speak of it, not to think of it! La, la, la, la, la... I will not hear any more about Branka!"

"We can end this," Nema told her. "Tell us what we need to know."

Hespith twisted suddenly and broke free of Oghren's grasp. "I will not become what I've seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!" She turned on her heels and dashed off down a winding hallway.

Nema gestured for the group to follow and they were on the sick dwarf's heels, lured by the pressured pattern of her voice. Nema granted Hespith a large berth as she staggered and spouted off verses.

"She became obsessed... that is the word but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil."

Silfee's brow was dropping more and more into furrowed distress as they continued. Oghren's expression was dark and Alistair was becoming skittish with his shield tightly clenched in one hand. Only Leliana seemed to perk up as Hespith fed them more pieces of her fevered tale.

"They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them. Broodmother..."

A metal door, encrusted in rust and gore swung open as if welcoming them. It had been too easy. Nema should have known that. Nothing could ever be that easy unless the darkspawn had wanted them deep in their catacombs. All the spiderwebs and fractured stone and dirt and ore and unlit niches could not have prepared them.

The drop off just beyond the open door was unexpected. It was difficult not to tumble and roll down into the pit below. The bones that littered the sides of the slope and withered husks of spider chitin told Nema this was a routine activity. How many unfortunates had been struck dead as they attempted to crawl back toward that door?

Broodmother. Hespith had called it a Broodmother. Massive and stationary, it's gigantic tentacles lashed out at them and tried to pull them in. That had once been a dwarf? That was what became of the Laryn that Hespith had mentioned?

Gray and unthinking. With its numerous teats cracked and bloodied from feeding its children, the Broodmother desired only one thing: to eat.

And they had fallen into that simple, but effective trap. Nema channeled her energy into her staff. The darkspawn thought to use them as food, did they? They used the very people they tormented and murdered to mother their genlocks and hurlocks?

Nema clenched her jaw and steadied her feet. It ended now.


	20. Chapter 20

Frannie thought it was time she and Faeron talked. It was one of the few rational thoughts that had crossed through her mind while the tears had fallen sporadically during the past few hours. Dirt on the floor of the jail cell had muddied the toe of her boots. It refused to come off despite how hard she rubbed at the leather. The last time she had been in that cell was when she and Leske...

And there were the tears, again.

It was frustrating and exhausting. Frannie couldn't breathe through her nose anymore and her eyes were swollen and raw. She lacked the energy to produce anything more than the slight misting over her eyes that blurred her vision, but every time she had convinced herself she was done with the intense sobbing that had preoccupied her earlier, her mind would stray to Leske. Little thoughts, bad thoughts. Something insignificant, like how she'd never asked him what he was thinking that one time he'd laughed over his mug of ale, and then it would travel to how dull his eyes had been and how slack and wrong his jaw fell open and how it was wrong and she was wrong and everything was wrong.

He didn't look at peace. He didn't look like he was sleeping. He looked like a forgotten, discarded husk.

So it would start like poison in the back of her mind and spread outward, until it shook her chest and burned her eyes. Faeron sat, silent and glaring in his cell as Frannie cycled through these thoughts over and over again.

The last time she had been in that cell, she had picked the lock. It wouldn't bring Leske back.

Zevran seemed to read her mind. From outside the cell, he caught her gaze with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. With a swipe of her nose, Frannie crawled to the side of the cell and gripped the bars.

"Say something," she said. "Please."

Faeron turned his head to face her, but did not move. He stared at her red ringed eyes and his mouth twisted. "There is nothing to say. Neither of us can compromise in this situation without also compromising our principles."

"What does wanting your brother dead have anything to do with principles?" The remark came out more biting than she intended. His eyes narrowed and Frannie resigned herself to the fact that a calm discussion would probably never happen.

"It's just as principled as wanting to protect a sister who has risen far beyond the constraints of her station," he replied.

Her guts clenched. She could feel a sick warmth rising up her spine and flashing out of her cheeks. "Are you saying that the danger my sister's in is Rica's fault?"

"She's a casteless whore," Faeron said. He averted his gaze from her and looked straight ahead. "She has no role in the dwarven aristocracy aside from the opportunities presented to a parasite."

Frannie hadn't realized that her hand had formed a fist until she pounded the ground with it. "And what role do you have in the dwarven aristocracy?" she growled. "Proud Prince Faeron Aeducan, the darling, favored son of King Endrin, kinslayer, brother murderer, banished to the Deep Roads in disgrace!"

"I told you the Aeducan name was dead-"

"Oh, give me a break, you nug-humping bronto's arse!" She pulled herself up and looked at him squarely. "I am so over the 'casteless whore' excuse. We're branded and punished not for anything we did, not anything our parents did, grandparents- who did it? Somebody must've done something! It's so far back not a damn person can tell me what our ancestors did that was so bad, only that I've got a brand on my cheek so I must be scum. Doesn't matter I'm trying so hard to do right despite how many times I've seen one of your nobles pop a shiv in their brother's back!"

Faeron was looking at her, now. It wasn't a kind expression on his face. "Bhelen killed our brother, Trian and let me accept the blame. Then he helped our father along with some poison. Now, you want me to reward him with the future of Orzammar. How is that doing right? How is that fair? Do you honestly think your pretty little Rica is safe in his care?"

"Between a full belly in the Diamond Quarter or all the criminals you've turned everyone in Dust Town into?" Frannie barked out a laugh. "I think Rica'll take her chances with your dishonest lot."

Zevran slipped a dagger into his boot and leaned against the wall of the jail. He said nothing, but his eyes followed both Frannie and Faeron as intently as if it had been a festival day pageant.

"You would put your Rica above all others in Orzammar?" Faeron was losing the aggression behind his earlier statements. As his voice became quieter, it gained a strange, cold tinny to it. "Your loyalty to your family has you defending a man who possesses none."

"Yeah," Frannie realized. "You're right, I would put Rica above all of Orzammar. She's earned it, she deserves that much."

Faeron frowned away whatever was plaguing the back of his mind. "Bhelen destroyed his family for his own selfish gain. He'd sacrifice anything for his station. Casteless, smith, merchant, noble, they're all just pawns to him."

"Even his own son?"

His eyes were an inky brown, wavering and fluid as he glanced at her. "I believe so," he muttered.

"Don't you lie to me, Faeron," she said. He refused to look at her, then. Frannie sighed.

She circled around the small confines of the cell before she finally sat back down. There had been so much time since the last time she'd been trapped in there, but she could pretend there were still hints and whispers of Leske. Maybe he had been the one to make that long scratch along the door of the cell.

"I have lost so much," Frannie said. She didn't like the hiccuping shakiness that her voice had taken to, but she couldn't seem to stop once she had started. "I didn't really have much to begin with. I don't have a home here, anymore, I don't have my best friend. Please don't make me lose my sister. Please don't make me lose my nephew."

Faeron said nothing. He ground his thick fingers into the bridge of his nose.

"Say something," Frannie demanded. "If I have to face the entire warrior caste so that she can escape to the surface, I will. I just, I can't lose anything more- Say something!"

The only sound that punctuated the room was Faeron's long exhale.

"Faeron!"

"I have a son."

That stopped her cold. "Beg pardon?"

"I have a son," he repeated. "It would be a simpler predicament if it were just weighted by how much I hate my brother."

"I don't understand," Frannie murmured. "There's no record of you having a son."

"No, there wouldn't be." He chuckled. It wasn't a friendly sound. "It was right after the Provings. I was elated. I would have taken anyone to my bed and why shouldn't I? I was a skilled warrior who had just bested the others, I was Father's favorite, I had the rest of my life to do even greater things than I'd already accomplished. A girl, Mardy, found me before anyone else."

"This was before Prince Trian?" Frannie asked.

Faeron nodded. "This was before Trian. No sooner had I bathed her scent off me then I was set up by Bhelen. It was easy to forget her after that, all things considered."

She pulled herself closer to the bars, to his cell. "You know the babe's yours?"

"He has my eyes." There was a quick flicker of a genuine smile. "Already, he gives expressions just like my father. The time frames match up. I believe her. There's no reason why she would lie about paternity when the father's a convicted kinslayer."

There was a gathering knot in her belly. Her earlier tears were forgotten in lieu of the chill of apprehension. "Does Bhelen know?"

"I don't know," Faeron said. "Lord Harrowmont has given his word to look after the boy. He'll never be a noble, he'll never rule Orzammar, but he'll be cared for. He won't be abandoned in the Deep Roads."

"That's..." It was hard for Frannie to look at him. As she ran a hand across her hair, she grabbed a fistful of the limp, red hair and tugged. "I don't know what to say."

More bittersweet laughter. "I know. We've two innocent babes and neither deserve to be held accountable for the sins of their fathers."

"There must be something we can do," she insisted. "It's not fair."

"If life were fair, there would be more darkness in your heart over the evils you've endured." The set of Faeron's brow softened and his features thawed. "Sometimes we're fortunate in how unfair life can be."

And with so few words, the tension in her belly began to unravel. Under Zevran's watchful eye, Frannie stood and picked the lock to her cell door. She walked over to Faeron's cell and opened the door. "You would have made a good king."

"No." He stood and gripped her hand in his. "I'm too rigid and love too much. That's like me saying that you would have made an excellent warrior had you been born to the right caste."

"I will be your warrior." Frannie flashed him a broad grin. "Your majesty."

Faeron just shook his head at her.

"Come on," Frannie said. "Let's go see if our friends have returned, yet."

Zevran clapped a hand on Frannie's shoulder as she walked past him and all three of them left the recesses of the carta's jail for the openness of the Diamond Quarter.


	21. Chapter 21

Silfee couldn't stop shuddering. Broodmother. That thing had been a dwarf. That thing had been a woman. That thing had been a mother.

She could still feel its tentacles, those slime wrapped muscles, gripping, suctioning, contracting all around her body.

She wished Edgar were there. He would know what to do, what to say. Motherhood was an awful circumstance with blood and agony that ended with the child being torn away from the mother, but that creature... Silfee was shaking. Wynne placed a hand on her shoulder.

The way it had screamed, she couldn't stop thinking about its scream. What had it wanted? They had killed so many of its children, outside and beyond the reach of its tentacles. It wasn't hungry, it was heartbroken. How does one protect its child when its wrenched far away from the safety of your arms? Maybe it just wanted them to understand. Silfee so desperately wished she could tell it that she did understand. She understood the blood, the pain, the despair. When Silfee closed her eyes, she could feel the pulsing grip of those mottled pink tentacles as they dragged her across the rock toward the Broodmother, she could see its shining black eyes and foaming mouth and hear it shriek.

Too familiar. It was all too familiar. She wanted to bathe it away and forget everything.

"Really, Wynne," Silfee said. "I'm quite alright."

Then rock and hardness and she was swept off her feet and driven into the ground.

Silfee found herself staring face to face with Shale. Shale, the one who had crushed the tentacles into bloody pulp. If it had been any other foe, Silfee may have been offended that someone more attractive hadn't been the one to save her. Shale had saved her from the Broodmother and now, from the collapsing rock doorway. It would seem that it was incredibly useful to have a golem among their friends.

Silfee blinked hard. Think of poetry. Think of dancing. Think of parties with silk dresses adorned with ruffles. If she could just push it from her mind and focus on the surface details, she could function.

Not Duncan's headless corpse, not Cailan's deflated chest, not Father clutching his bloodied belly, not Oriana, not Oren.

Good. It was good to be nobility. What would the Tevinters think of this particular story? There would be certain facts that Silfee would embellish, of course, or play down, but it would be an acceptable read if she and Edgar were victorious in the end and reunited with Fergus, wouldn't it?

The golem hoisted her to her feet and Silfee giggled lightly as she brushed herself off. The fools weren't paying attention.

"Branka? By the Stone! I barely recognized you!" Oghren sounded a little too happy, considering they had just been trapped in a forgotten passage of the Deep Roads.

"Oghren." The husky voiced dwarven woman wasn't what Silfee would call handsome. Branka stood high on a jutting overpass, removed from the passageway they were being funneled down. "It figures you'd eventually find your way here. Hopefully, you can find your way back more easily."

Branka gestured a hand to them. If this was an example of dwarven manners, it was no wonder that they couldn't raise themselves beyond merchants on the surface. "And how shall I address you?" she asked. "Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn't mind Oghren's ale breath?"

"Be respectful, woman!" Oghren jabbed a thumb in Nema's direction. "You're talking to a Grey Warden!"

And so they argued. It wasn't a climactic reunion of star-crossed lovers and it lacked the electric spark of sexual energy that would make Silfee's toes curl at night while she eagerly flipped the pages of her Orlesian novels. Oghren and Branka were so gruff and terse it was difficult to pinpoint whatever love they had had that prompted their marriage in the first place.

It almost made Silfee want to hug Oghren. Almost. One look from those eyes, drunk with rage and one whiff of the dried sweat on his steel armor made her reconsider. Still, Branka was a horrible wretch of a woman who sacrificed her entire house for an artifact and even Oghren with his filth and ill demeanor, deserved better.

Since they had slain Branka's never ending supply of darkspawn, they were to test themselves against the traps that the Paragon Caradin had laid out to guard the Anvil of the Void. Now, this was certainly something contrived enough for the mind of an Orlesian author. Just how had Branka made that doorway collapse, anyhow? What was the mechanism she had used? None of Silfee's companions seemed very interested in her musings, only that their exit had been cut off and the remaining path was littered with the bodies of darkspawn and Oghren's kin.

Leliana volunteered to take point and she quietly hummed a hymn as her deft fingers worked to disable tripwires and pressure plate traps. The Chantry sister was quite the oddity that Silfee took an absolute delight in. With copper colored hair and skin like fresh cream, she was more beautiful than any chaste sister had a right to be. Silfee wondered if Leliana was affirmed. The Maker did have a sense of humor, after all.

Looks aside, however, Leliana had a particularly dastardly set of skills. That a woman who claimed to be a devout servant of the Maker himself, could pick locks, disable traps and pick pockets was something Silfee found very intriguing.

The traps left by Caridin were more elaborate than the petty attempts made by the degenerates back in Dust Town. Leliana could undo a tripwire, yes, but she lacked a control rod for the attacking golems and couldn't reach the mechanism that was leaking poison gas into their passageway. Shale didn't seem to care. It appeared to be immune to the gas and as such, attacked its brethren with its usual gusto. Fortunately, Wynne was there to envelop them all in the blue aura that she willed. It limited their battle space, certainly, but Silfee was willing to concede that it was better to breathe than to be able to make use of the full breadth of her sword arm.

Perhaps Silfee's plan of attack was a bit unfair, but she had a clear understanding of just what Shale could do with its fists. The golems they faced were much larger than Shale and rock could chip her blade. So Silfee ducked and taunted and dodged while Shale pummeled the other golems and Nema called magic to her fingers.

Oghren, Alistair and Leliana appeared to not share Silfee's aversion to the golems. Then again, they hadn't been nearly dragged to their deaths as Silfee had. Maker, there was a large gouge in her leg where her calf had scraped against a rock as she had been pulled toward the Broodmother's open maw. That didn't mean she was tainted, did it? She hadn't come in contact with a darkspawn weapon or blood, it was just dirt and stone in her wound. She wouldn't get ill and waste away and descend into madness, would she?

The golems were strong, but Alistair possessed a speed they lacked. He ran circles round them and would knock them off balance with his shield so that Shale or one of the others could finish them off. Perhaps Caridin never anticipated surface mages to have an interest in his anvil.

The final golem's head made a popping noise as Nema set it alight as easily as if it were charcoal. Blue light from Wynne's magic danced across the stone glyphs on the now silent hallway. As they made their way out and the clouds of murky green poison cleared, Wynne once again placed her hand on Silfee's shoulder.

"Wynne." Silfee laughed away the shivers in her spine. "I already told you, I'm quite alright."

Wynne had that warm smile that she so often used. Odd, that she wasn't looking at Silfee while she spoke. "So you said," the mage muttered just as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she toppled over backward.

"Wynne!" Alistair was immediately at the old woman's side. He hoisted her up into his arms and gave her cheek a few pats with a soft hand.

Wynne blinked rapidly and hard until her eyes could focus on his face. "Oh," she murmured. "I fell."

"All this excitement is too much for your old bones?" Alistair chided. "No, seriously, stunts like that have the tendency to frighten me and I look hideous when I cry."

"For a moment there I thought I was... I thought it was all over."

"Not at all," Alistair said. "We've still got a ways to go to reach the Anvil- wait. What?"

Wynne exhaled. "Everything."

Clever. Silfee would have to remember that. It would be a scream to recite that the next time she inevitably fainted at a party. Too tight corsets were close enough to near-death experiences for the majority of the coddled nobility. Wouldn't that be lovely? A costumed ball with a banquet dinner and music?

Wynne smiled up at Alistair and gently, almost motherly, tucked the fluff of a sideburn back behind his ear. He was due for a trim, what with all their marauding through the Deep Roads interrupting mundane things such as haircuts.

"I will explain everything when we are back at camp," Wynne promised. "Now is not the time."

"Right," Alistair said. He didn't sound convinced, but he helped her to her feet.

The ceiling of the hall was dotted with the blue of lyrium ore and as they passed a final archway the space expanded to an open clearing. Golems stood in frozen, rapt attention in lines and ranks that led up to one massive golem. The king of golems, Silfee thought wryly.

The golem turned and nodded its head at them in greeting. Silfee may have gasped, but she sorely hoped that no one had noticed.

"My name is Caridin," the massive golem said. "Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar."

"Caridin?" Shale asked. It stepped forward, almost hesitant. "The paragon smith? Alive?"

"There is a voice I recognize!" The warmth in Caridin's voice struck Silfee as bizarre. Not that she had much experience with golems, but weren't they constructs? These two now sounded as if they had genuine emotion. "Shale of House Cadash, step forward."

Shale paused. "You know my name?" It took a single step forward. "Is it you that forged me, then?" It took another step, then another. "Is it you that gave me my name?"

"Have you forgotten, then?" Caridin asked. "It has been so long. I made you into the golem you are now, Shale, but before that you were a dwarf, just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor and the only woman to volunteer."

"The only... woman?" Shale sounded incredulous, which was fitting, given that Silfee was fairly certain that her own jaw had dropped low enough to hit the ground. "A dwarf?"

Perhaps it was better that Shale couldn't remember her previous life. Silfee found all her attempts to imagine Shale as a dwarven woman to be pure, unadulterated madness.

"I laid you on the Anvil of the Void in this very room," Caridin said. "I put you into the form you now possess."

"The Anvil of the Void," Shale murmured. "That is what we seek."

Caridin stared at them all. Almost rudely, though it may have simply been the way the smiths had fashioned his eyes. "If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story," he said. "Or be doomed to relive it."

And so he regaled them with his tale of how the Anvil of the Void came to be. Golems were so powerful because they were stone forged from blood, everything came with a price. Shale had once been a woman, but Caridin had burned away her flesh and stripped her humanity. Shale appeared to physically shudder at the mention of her being mortal, of being soft of being a "her" instead of an "it."

But Shale had been a volunteer. She had willingly submitted to the Anvil's hammer. She wasn't casteless or a prisoner or a political adversary of the king. Her free will wasn't broken by some king's control rod. It was upsetting for Silfee to admit that such a political boon had ties with blood magic and dark arts. The Anvil of the Void was a slur against the Maker himself.

"My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am," Caridin said. "But not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind. We have remained entombed here ever since and I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil. Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it."

Nema wanted it. Of course she did, it made sense. Silfee savored the moment she gave herself to fantasize about an army of golems. It would be glorious to watch them storm Ferelden and break through the lines of darkspawn. She could imagine them as they swarmed over Highever and crushed Rendon Howe in her name.

There was a certain, inky attraction to it. But she was her mother's daughter and Teyrna Eleanor Cousland knew the importance of raising her children in the faith, the importance of her children being strong enough to bear both shame and guilt.

Everyone else was in favor of destroying the Anvil. Shale just wanted whatever Caridin did and Oghren just wanted his wife.

Nema dealt with it in the same fashion that she dealt with anything that didn't go her way. When she realized she couldn't push and badger and demand everyone into acquiescing to what she wanted, she grew eerily quiet with that remorseless, frozen fury to her expressionless face. Silfee was sure the elf was cataloging every injustice, every slight in the back of her mind so that when she sought vengeance later, she would know precisely how hard to strike. Nema Surana would be a dangerous foe, if anyone were foolish enough to grant her power.

"No!" The manic voice lanced over the quiet as Branka charged toward them. How had she not succumbed to the poison? "The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!" She stopped in front of Caridin, a rod clenched in her fist.

"You!" Was all Caridin got out, before she waved the rod in her hand and activated his fellow golems.

It would seem that Branka did not have a clear understanding of diplomacy. Or even of golems that had been dormant for centuries. The creatures went mad and struck out at her, they lashed out at Silfee and her friends, even at each other. Such a shame, really.

Silfee was once again diving and scrambling away from the blows of golems while Branka and her companions dealt them damage. The more Silfee twisted and skirted away from stone fists, the more she realized how cross she was at Edgar. He was probably laughing and drinking wine with Arl Eamon in Redcliffe, by now. Arlessa Isolde had always been a lovely host, if her memory was correct.

Branka swung her mace at Oghren and he flipped his axe around in his hands so that he could smash the blunt handle of his weapon across the bridge of her nose.

"You mad, bleeding nug tail," he barked. "Does this thing mean so much to you that you can't even see what you've lost to get it?"

So that was dwarven romance. It occurred to Silfee that there was a new, completely untapped genre. She had never read a romance novel penned from Orzammar. She would have to mention that to the next merchant they came across, maybe Bodahn would know something about that, being a dwarf.

As everyone focused on disabling the golems, Branka and Oghren continued to deliver non-lethal blows to each other as they screamed and bickered.

"Is this what our empire should look like?" Branka demanded. "A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume?"

"Don't throw your life away for this!" Oghren whipped his axe back around so that the blade faced his wife. His stance was solid, but his eyes wavered.

Branka spat on the ground and wound her mace back behind her. As she dove for him, she was caught in midair by Caridin's powerful grip and he squeezed with his massive hands, squeezed until bone cracked and wheezing air and life was forced from her mouth with a gasp. Oghren stood unmoving, not attacking, not defending. Caridin laid Branka's still form gently onto the stone ground.

Oghren didn't go near Branka's corpse, but he kept muttering beneath his breath. The only thing Silfee could identify was the phrase, "stupid woman," over and over again.

"Another life lost because of my invention," Caridin said. "I wish no mention of it had made it into history."

"There's still the matter of the election," Oghren said. His eyes were already on the exit where Branka had appeared from. "I mean, we still need a paragon to get the Assembly's support, right?"

Caridin nodded. "For the aid you've given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time and give you a crown for the king of your choice."

And so they sat and watched as the paragon smith, Caridin, bent steel to his will. Steam rose from the magma pits beside the Anvil of the Void as the giant golem used a mallet as though it were a tiny hammer. Shale wandered away to stare intently at some runes on the wall as Caridin finished his handiwork.

It was nothing that Silfee would ever want to place atop her head. The craftsmanship was impeccable. It gleamed golden and had the intricate crest of Caridin's house etched inside it and would be well suited for any king of Orzammar. But it was large and bulky and Silfee's neck was too delicate to support such a heavy burden.

As soon as Caridin finished his final boon, Nema refused to destroy the Anvil.

"I can't in good conscience destroy something that could be so useful," was all she would say. She crossed her arms tightly and dared anyone to disagree.

"I understand," Silfee said. She offered the other woman a courteous nod of her head and then took Alistair, sputtering with indignation, by the arm. "We would never ask you to do something you disagreed with."

Silfee then led Alistair up the Anvil and together they raised their weapons. Discussion and banter and even arguments were all well and good in the necessary time and place. But sometimes people mistook inaction and floundering for civility. She wondered what Nema must have been thinking, but then cast it aside in favor for how amusing it was that in standing in front of a fount of magma, it made it look as though steam was pouring out of Nema's ears.

For something so powerful and dangerous, the Anvil of the Void broke to pieces with an almost careless ease. It chipped and crumbled, and Silfee even managed to find a smooth piece of the horn with a pretty rune engraved upon it that she could pocket to show Edgar.

With the Anvil destroyed, Caridin claimed that he had lived too long and stepped into the magma. Shale was still quite taken with the wall. "Shale of House Cadash," she murmured as her finger traced the writing.

"Would you like to go there?" Wynne asked. "We can go now."

Shale was silent for a long time. "No," she said, finally. "The only one who knew my former life is gone now. The only thing I would find is bones and ruins."

"If you are certain," Wynne said. The old woman placed a hand on Shale's arm.

"Thank you," was all the golem would say.

"You ready to head back yet and share the news?" Oghren called from the doorway.

Nema marched over to join him, her nose in the air. "Yes."


	22. Chapter 22

"There was a time when Flemeth was young and beautiful. A fair lass in a land of barbarian men, the desire of any who saw her."

"Just how long ago was this?"

Morrigan met Donal's smirk with a raised eyebrow. The length of his nose and the back of his neck had sunburned and begun to peel, so they'd taken to retreating to the shelter of their tent when the afternoon sun bore down hardest. The grimoire sat on her lap and she idly flipped through it as she distracted him with myths.

"Many centuries," she said. "Before this land was even named Ferelden.

'The tales say that Flemeth fell in love with Osen, the bard, and fled the castle of her husband, the dread lord Conobar, and that he swore vengeance for her infidelity. In truth, my mother claims that 'twas Osen who was her husband and Conobar the jealous lord who looked on from afar."

Morrigan's face had a particular animation to it as she explained the imaginary exploits of her mother. Strange, that someone who purportedly had little outside contact with others as a child could be so comfortable and dynamic among them, that she could be so captivating when she spoke.

Donal had always been so accepting of his home in the tower. He used to jeer at his compatriots who made attempt after attempt at escape, particularly the few fools who had a ready supply of apprentices willing and waiting to hoist up the skirts of their robes for them. The only escape that made sense was Jowan's and then that bitch Nema ruined everything. It was almost funny that Greagoir marked Donal as an elopement risk after all that nonsense when he was more than content to breathe his last breath within the safety of the Circle's walls.

Still, it was easy to comprehend why a mage might run, now. They weren't looking forward to a life as an apostate. Perhaps they just had a witch of their own whom they longed to hear more tales from.

"Lord Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife," Morrigan continued. "Osen agreed."

"He sold his wife to another man?" Donal asked. It would interesting to see just how much coin Flemeth was worth, but he gathered that wasn't the point of Morrigan's story.

She shrugged. "The life of a bard is a poor one and love fades in the wake of hunger." She turned a page in the grimoire. "'Twas Flemeth who suggested the arrangement. All would have been well had Lord Conobar kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who bargained with coin he did not possess. Osen was led off to a field and slain, left for dead. Flemeth spoke with the spirits and learned of the deed and swore revenge."

So the closest Flemeth would come to love was revenge, then? Donal kept his mouth shut. "She spoke with spirits?" he asked. "Or demons?"

"Spirits first," Morrigan said. "And 'twas they who slew Conobar. Flemeth did not turn to the demons until... much later."

"That's quite the story." He leaned back on his elbow and scratched the dead skin from his nose. "Thanks for telling me."

She gave a little snort. "Flemeth tells it with far more embellishment than I. But you are welcome." Morrigan stared at him then, with those amber eyes in a way that sent him fidgeting. Donal wasn't familiar with the look she gave him, not quite inquisitive, not entirely cold, and he only knew that he was unused to that amount of undivided attention from anyone.

"Dare I ask of your own mother?" Her features were soft and she tilted her head. "Few are abominations of legend, tis true, but I find myself curious nonetheless."

An odd question for a mage. One that left Donal sucking in air through his teeth as he tried to formulate a substantial answer. There were times as a youth in the tower, when he'd breathe in the air of Lake Calenhad and be left with a wistful feeling that he couldn't quite place. Usually after a stormy night of hard rain that left the lake water choppy and rough, almost like an ocean.

Kirkwall did have a harbor. He felt like someone had been crying. Maybe it had been him.

"I was sent to the Circle very young," he said finally. "I don't remember my mother, not really. I think she had light hair, maybe blonde. It's hard to say sometimes if they're real memories or just fantastical things I dreamed up."

Wouldn't it be nice if it were real, though? The honey blonde hair adorned with flowers whose petals he would always reach for. Somebody was definitely crying and then there was a hand along the length of his back, stroking, soothing, tracing little shapes in between his shoulder blades, maybe letters.

Gave him a life, gave him a name, gave him to Templars.

Morrigan nodded. "Then you have my sympathies, for what it is worth. Which is very little, I am certain."

"Why do you have to do that?" He reached forward and shut the grimoire on her fingers.

"Do what?" Her nose twitched.

"We're just talking," Donal said. "You bring up something personal and then you brush it off like it doesn't matter."

Morrigan forcefully reopened the grimoire. "You do not remember your mother and I offered my sympathies. I do not know what else you'd like for me to do."

"Not tell me that I don't care for one." He sat upright and grabbed for the grimoire. "I wouldn't try so hard at conversations with you if I didn't care what you thought."

She pulled it away from his hands. "Does it honestly matter what anyone thinks of something that happened so long ago? You do not weep for your mother still, it appears you have healed from that injury."

"Don't devalue your words," he insisted.

"Oh?" Her mouth curved up at the sides. "And is there value you place in them? Are they not just a distraction in the pursuit of a more physical nature?"

"What?" He rubbed at the ache in his neck. "We've been in this tent an awful long time, sweetheart. Don't you think I'd have made my move by now if I thought you were interested?"

"Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak and two, that she finds him attractive." The expression on her face was so confident, so matter-of-fact.

"Morrigan," Donal said. "Look at me. Look at this face. I know that I will never be considered attractive by anyone's standards."

When she opened her mouth, he shushed her with a quick gesture.

"I'm serious. I'm not trying to elicit pity or denials," he continued. "I know I'm not handsome. Simple as that. Hopefully I'm passingly interesting, though, if that's not too much to ask."

She wasn't listening. Morrigan had her nose back in the grimoire, her lips twisted into a petulant frown.

"Too much to ask," he muttered. "Now, you're just being belligerent."

It was Morrigan's turn to shush him. "I'm studying Mother's grimoire."

"You look a tad disturbed." He crawled to her side and gazed down at the text. There was an illustration along with the runes of a body, almost like a puppet, or empty sack.

"Disturbed?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Yes, perhaps that is the right word. One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me."

She shifted the tome so that it would share both her lap and Donal's. Morrigan's fingers traced the cipher and pointed at the simple drawing of the empty husk of a body. Her frown deepened. "Here, in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries."

"I see," Donal murmured. And he did. The gilt was flaking off some of the text, but the words of the cipher were as clear as day. "Where do you suppose Flemeth would find a young, healthy woman as talented in magic as she to steal a body from?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many witches of the wilds throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not. And now I know."

"You believe this?" Donal asked.

"Tis right here, in front of me." A tinge of anger lanced through her voice. "They are all Flemeth! When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter and when the time is right, she takes her daughter's body for her own."

Donal shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would she risk sending you with the Grey Wardens, then?"

"I do not know." The grimoire fell slack in her lap. "Perhaps tis as she said, the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else? Or perhaps she believes that this journey will make me more powerful. According to the tome, if the... host, is already powerful and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to settle in."

Donal pulled the grimoire onto his lap. He had to read it for himself, see it with his own eyes. Sure enough, the cipher clearly depicted a way for an abomination to transfer its essence into hosts, to steal life. He exhaled. "If she truly means this for you, then your mum's a right bitch."

"Then we agree." The set of Morrigan's brow hardened. "There is only one possible response to this: Flemeth needs to die."

"Morrigan-"

"I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled," she said. "Flemeth must be slain and I need your help to do it."

"My help?" Donal laughed. "Morrigan, look at me. Look at who you're asking. The last time I went against a demon, I fell in exchange for a dream about a six-breasted woman. You need a Templar or a warrior, not some shut-in hack of a mage. The best I could do is bore her to death with facts about the Tevinter Imperium."

"You've seen with your own eyes this is what Flemeth intends." She picked up the grimoire and hefted it across the tent. With nothing in between them, she faced him squarely and stared him down. "I cannot face her myself, lest she uses it as an opportunity to claim my body early. You would honestly leave me to this fate?"

He found it funny that such a strong personality was found in such a fragile looking body. With her slender limbs and slight frame, Donal in all of his lanky gawkiness felt absolutely enormous in comparison. Yet he never would have believed that someone as immoveable as Morrigan would have been capable of pleading.

Still, there she was, her knees pressed against his, her eyes round and aghast. There was no triumph in this, no victory.

"No," Donal said. "No, I wouldn't. Just let me think a moment."

"Oh."

"We have to wait until we're reunited with everyone else," he told her. "Edgar will help. He's been raised to be a mindless sycophant of the Chantry and won't think twice about murdering an abomination. Alistair and his Templar training would be helpful, too. Maybe Sten-"

Morrigan's lips silenced his. Strange, he'd always imagined that her skin would be cooler than his. It was sort of bizarre, in a way, to realize that he was being manipulated, that her body was a reward. Perhaps if he had been a better man, he would have turned her away, refused the flushed skin along her collarbone, the quickening pulse in her throat, the hot, heady gasps breathed back into his open mouth.

Perhaps that's why she chose him. Because he didn't care that it was morally right, only that he was weak enough to say yes.


	23. Chapter 23

It was strange to see his brother again after so long. As they marched into the Assembly, Bhelen was quick to argue with the deshyrs, and openly slandered both Faeron and the Grey Wardens for their involvement.

Then the Grey Wardens placed a crown atop Bhelen Aeducan's head and his opinion of them changed entirely.

Faeron stayed silent. Silent under his brother's accusations, silent under the coronation, silent as guards seized Pyral Harrowmont. He walked forward, gripped the older man's shoulders and kissed his cheek, but Faeron knew enough to not intervene as they hauled Harrowmont off to be executed.

What was done was done. Certain allowances had to be made to garner certain favors.

"Wardens," Bhelen said. "You have my gratitude." And then he excused himself. Faeron wondered if he too, was included in Bhelen's invitation back to the Royal Palace.

The deshyrs milled about the Assembly like phantom memories in the back of his brain. That crown was too big for Bhelen's head. Faeron could remember him as a child, too short to reach the shelf of sweets in the palace pantry. Faeron always offered to retrieve them for him, but Bhelen always insisted on climbing the shelves, himself.

Faeron could hear noblewomen gossiping and could smell the oil used to buff the stone carvings on the wall. So normal, so like it had always been. It was a cruel trick, the ebb and flow of everyday life that was accompanied by that aching gnaw of loneliness. He half expected to feel a hand on his shoulder and to turn around and find his father standing there.

It was just Frannie Brosca.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"It had to be done," he replied.

"Aye." Her eyes followed his every movement closely. "But are you okay?"

He nodded and forced a smile. It felt foreign on his mouth. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay."

"Does that mean you're really okay or you're just saying okay because that's what's expected of you?"

That got a chuckle out of him, but he found it difficult to look at her. "What do you want me to say? Everyone I care about is either dead or the cause of it."

"Well..." Her gaze darted from him to her boots. Frannie wore a small smile. "Not everybody. You're a father, now."

"Hmm." The babe with the dark brown eyes. The boy had faced him down with pouty lips and a single raised eyebrow. Faeron didn't like the ache in his chest at the thought. "In name."

"I guess so." Her smile tightened. "In that case, I'm okay, too."

When it had first happened, and he and Gorim stumbled across Trian's cold form in the old Aeducan Thaig, Faeron had been overcome by rage. It coiled, frozen inside his guts and stilled his tongue and flung him into furious inaction. He stayed awake many a night, wondering if it had been Bhelen to deliver the killing blow or if he had merely ordered it. Then he would stay up even later trying to decide which fate was worse: death by your kin's hand or the paid blade of an underling. Faeron would fantasize about how he would force the truth from Bhelen and then their father would be able to look Faeron in the eye, again.

The idle fancies of a man who didn't exist anymore.

Faeron clapped a hand on Frannie's shoulder. "Are you ready to go to the Royal Palace?"

She nodded. "Aye."

As they walked out, they collected the stragglers of their group. Silfee was picking a fresh scab on her leg almost obsessively and Shale was discussing something with the Shaper. Nema had already started an argument with one of the dead caste by the time it took Faeron to leave the Assembly.

"You would better serve on the surface," she was saying.

The legionnaire appeared to be just as obstinate as she. "How would we better serve Orzammar by leaving her bare assed and waiting for the darkspawn to traipse in? I've told you already, The Legion of the Dead ensures that surfacers only know of darkspawn through the occasional Blight, because we stay in the Deep Roads where the threat is constant."

"Thank you," Faeron told him. Nema stared daggers at him and he met her glare impassively. "We need to speak to the king in the Royal Palace. Unless you're not finished disrespecting this man?"

"I think we're done," she said. There was a flatness to her expression. "I only hope Kardol will acknowledge that the blood of all the countless lives lost will be on his hands due to his refusal to aid us."

"You should have trained your warriors in battle as much as you honed the barb on your tongue," Kardol replied.

"Enough, Nema." Faeron nodded to Kardol. "Is the Legion gathered in Aeducan Thaig?"

"Farther," Kardol said. "Past the old Ortan Thaig."

"Very good." Faeron walked on down the streets of the Diamond Quarter and toward the palace.

Still heavily guarded, the mood of the Royal Palace had shifted drastically. There was a king in Orzammar again, and the opponent would be slain very shortly. They were a united nation once more. When Faeron offered his longsword to the guards, they allowed him to keep it, but he could feel their eyes on him as he walked toward the throne room.

Frannie's sister dashed up to her and tugged on her arm. Cut from the same rock, certainly, but Rica was more elegant, more refined. Whereas Bhelen had found the more beautiful sister, Faeron liked to think that he found the better sister. Frannie was more compact and less curvaceous than Rica, but Faeron had never seen Rica slurping from a wineskin next to a campfire and laughing that deep, unladylike belly laugh that Frannie was so fond of.

Perhaps Rica had those traits, as well. Faeron preferred to think she did not.

The women ran off together, down the hall toward the living quarters. It would make sense that the nursery would be there, now. They had to fill his old room, and Trian's old room, somehow.

Wynne and Leliana were waiting outside the throne room patiently. Alistair looked a bit befuddled, his finger trailing after the direction Frannie had disappeared. Zevran sighed and tsked while Silfee still played with the scratch on her leg. Shale was nowhere to be found. Faeron hoped that the golem was still with the Shaper and hadn't been hauled off for the greater good of Orzammar.

Nema still hadn't forgiven him.

The massive metal doors to the throne room swung open, and his brother greeted them from his seat. It always used to be that Trian was the one everyone wanted to punch. As everyone filed in, Faeron kept to the back.

Silfee strode up and gave the new king a curtsey. In typical Nema fashion, the elf marched in front of everyone and disregarded etiquette.

"You made a promise," she said.

Bhelen smiled in a way that would have made their father proud. "You've proven yourself and more, Warden," he said. "Without your aid, I would not have taken this throne so smoothly or so soon."

"You promised troops for the Blight," Nema said.

"I'm certain by the time you send for us, I will have amassed an army for you," Bhelen replied with a sigh. "Now, I have much to do, if there is nothing else...?"

Nema was already heading toward the exit. Silfee shot the king an apologetic look and murmured, "Lovely palace," before she too, hurried off.

Faeron watched as everyone, one by one, exited the throne room. Only Alistair hesitated, he glanced at Faeron and opened his mouth, but then shrugged instead of speaking and left.

When the room was empty save for Bhelen and himself, Faeron studied the wide berth between them. The long carpeted trail to issue grievances to the king.

"I never thought my long lost big brother, back from the dead, would be the one to help me," Bhelen said, finally.

"I never thought I would come back and help you," Faeron replied. "Things have changed."

"Yes, they have." Bhelen nodded. "I was wrong about you and you've proven that. Let me make it up to you."

That made Faeron laugh. "How?"

"From this day forward, you are pardoned from your punishment," Bhelen said. "You will retain your title of prince and once again be a member of the noble class."

He could feel a heaviness, a tightness building in his chest. "I don't want that."

"Faeron, take it."

He spun around and saw Frannie at the door. Her sister stood at her side with a toddler propped against her hip. Faeron saw Bhelen's eyes go wild at the sight of his defenseless son so close to his estranged brother. That was the paranoia that got a man crowned? Only with that look could Faeron know just how precarious his position was.

"You never told me you had a nephew," Rica said to Bhelen. She stood her son down on the ground and he took off in a staggering toddle towards his father, laughing and babbling as he did so.

"Faeron, what's going on?" Bhelen pushed himself out of his throne to scoop his son up. Once the boy was safe in his arms, he began to calm.

"I am content to carry the weight of my punishment," Faeron said. "I know that even with my titles and caste, I will never be welcome back in Orzammar."

"Faeron." Frannie reached for his arm and he brushed her away.

"But you have a nephew," he continued. "My son is currently casteless due to my crimes. I will not have him die in the Deep Roads."

"It sounds like you've already decided on a solution, brother," Bhelen said. "What do you propose?"

"Take my child." Faeron breathed and tried to still the pounding of his heart, to slow his speech. "If he is anything like me, he'll be a skilled warrior and loyal to a fault."

"Little Endrin will need a second," Rica said quietly. Bhelen shot her a look and she met his gaze without flinching.

"In exchange for this, I will continue to serve Orzammar." Faeron dropped to one knee. "I know I can't be within the city, that will raise too many questions. I will seek out Kardol and the Legion of the Dead in the Deep Roads. Being a Grey Warden means I can sense the darkspawn and know their numbers. By your order, we will take back Bownammar and any other thaig you deem worthy."

"You wish to cast aside your life in order to serve the Legion?" Bhelen asked.

Faeron smiled. "I died more than a year ago when I was condemned to walk the Deep Roads. At least this way, my body will be of some use."

"Faeron, you can't do that." At his side, Frannie was trying to pull him to his feet. "We've got the Blight, we've got a duty-"

"Can't I?"

Her eyes were large and round and the brows that framed them couldn't decide if they'd arch up in shock or swoop down in worry. "No! Don't you pull some honor bound suicide. You have your whole life in front of you, you owe the rest of the Grey Wardens to stop feeling sorry for yourself and get off your arse and go face down that Archdemon."

"If I'm going to die at the hands of darkspawn," Faeron stood, "I would prefer for it to be on my terms. I'd rather die surrounded by stone than in some foreign land."

"Faeron-"

"It's the way it should be, Frannie," he said. He looked over at his brother; their father's namesake was tugging at Bhelen's beard. "I'll be closer to my child this way. Maybe I'll be able to steal a glance of him every so often when I relay messages from the Legion back to our king."

Frannie's shoulders slumped. "What am I supposed to tell the others?"

"That it was my choice," Faeron said.

"I was just starting to get used to you being around, too." She forced out a laugh followed by a sniffle.

He rested his hands on her shoulders. "I'll be fine. You're the one chasing after an Archdemon."

"I also have a group of people trained for this purpose."

"So will I."

There was that manic laughter, again. Frannie was back to inspecting the leather of her boots.

"I promise not to die," he said.

"How can you even try to promise that-"

"Not right away, anyhow." Faeron smiled. "I give you my word that I'll last for at least a year or until we take back Bownammar, whichever happens first. Any longer is a blessing I'll gladly accept."

She nodded. "You better." Frannie let him squeeze her shoulders, before she headed over to Rica for a final hug. She muttered something low and unintelligible for Bhelen's ears only and then trotted back over to Faeron and threw her arms around him.

"Sod the Assembly," Frannie whispered. "You're my king, Faeron Aeducan. I'll be your arm on the surface."

"I feel bad for the surface, then," he said. "Go."

She was warm and solid in her embrace and then she was gone. Faeron watched her leave. There was still that apprehension, that fear, but he felt lighter.

It would seem Bhelen was still climbing, just as he had as a child. Father had been furious. Just as Bhelen reached the highest shelf, his weight toppled them all over on top of him, on top of Faeron, on top of Gorim. Gorim had broken his arm and even though it had healed with time, a trained eye could see that his right arm hung slightly more crooked than his left. Bhelen was unharmed, a sweet roll clutched in one victorious hand.

Faeron was the one reprimanded. He was older, he should have known better. Perhaps that had always been his problem. He stood back and didn't interfere, because people should be allowed to learn from their own folly. Unfortunately, when you were on top, you crushed others beneath you as you fell.

He should have known better. He should have realized. Maybe then, Gorim would still be there, maybe Trian would still be alive.

"Does your son have a name?" Bhelen asked.

"I was thinking Trian," Faeron said.

Bhelen snorted. "How did I know?"

Faeron raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather I name him after a kinslayer?"

"No," Bhelen laughed, "I suppose not. Trian. It's a good name."

"Aye," Faeron said. "It is."


	24. Chapter 24

Frannie had thought there would be more questions when Faeron left.

She had wracked her brain over the hypothetical interrogation. She came up with reasons as to why he would have joined the Legion of the Dead that didn't involve him being convicted of murdering his brother, the heir apparent to the throne. Maybe she could point to dwarven custom and honor, and pray her friends were too ignorant of their culture to spot her falsehoods.

As it turned out, no one seemed to care all that much. Alistair was distracted and kept peeking into his travel pack and then looking at her with a troubled expression. Maybe he did want to ask about Faeron and simply didn't know how. Shale kept muttering beneath her breath something about, "House Cadash." Silfee Cousland occupied all of Leliana's time with frantic, nervous chatter that had Wynne watching the two closely.

And when they left the gates of Orzammar for the Frostback Mountains, it was clear that a new dynamic had emerged between Donal and Morrigan. He noted that Faeron was missing, but accepted it a little too readily for Frannie's liking. The lack of conversation from Donal Amell sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing out suspiciously. Even Nema's scoffing noises were welcome with how bizarre everyone was behaving.

It made for an awkward trek to Redcliffe. All the private conversations between Donal and Morrigan before they would vanish to read, and the very obvious regret that Shale harbored over not stopping at Cadash Thaig. Perhaps, Frannie too, was quieter than normal. When her mind wasn't on Leske or her sister, it would linger on Faeron, the tragedy of House Aeducan, her Paragon of lost causes.

When the mountainous terrain gave way to forests, Silfee began to perk up. Stone, Frannie had never thought she'd see the day when she was relieved to hear the idle gossip that spewed from the spoiled noble's mouth.

Oghren had quickly made himself at home with the group. After his initial dizzy spell when he was first exposed to the sky, he'd pulled out a skin filled with ale and he and Zevran began to vie for Wynne's attention. Wynne handled all their random declarations of 'bosoms" and "booze" with the patience of a mother chiding her children.

"You look better," Alistair said suddenly. Frannie had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed him make his way toward her. "You had me worried there for a little while."

Fran shrugged. "It was nothing." She had cradled Leske in her arms. All the love, all the wishes in the world could not put Paragon Hirol back together again.

"It's never easy." Alistair raked a hand through his hair and stared down the beaten dirt path. "When Duncan died, I found myself praying that you'd wake up so that I wouldn't be alone. So that I had someone to grieve with. And now you've lost someone important to you and I've bungled it horribly."

"You didn't..." He had stood there, frozen in abject horror while she wept. He didn't say a damn thing when Nema thought it practical to lock her up like a criminal. For all the things he did do, it was his inaction that hurt the most. Frannie nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, You kind of did, didn't you?"

"Yeah." He exhaled and it turned into a sort of nervous laughter. "Talk to me about cheese and I'll never shut up, but when it's something important I'm an idiot. Seriously, Frannie, I am so, so sorry."

"Alistair, it's fine." Was it, though? Would it ever be fine, again? How many more people would they lose before it was over? Frannie didn't like that weightless feeling in her guts. Maybe she truly would just fall upward into the sky like all the dusters used to claim.

"It's just, well..." He opened his travel pack, dug through it and thrust something into her chest. "Here. I mean, I wanted to give you this. Do you know what this is?"

It made a rustling noise as he pressed it against her leather armor and when she grasped it in her hands, one of the dried leaves from the rose crumpled and fell loose onto the trail. "Is this a trick question?" Frannie asked.

"Yes! Absolutely!" Alistair slung his pack back over his shoulder, a little too quickly to be natural. "I'm trying to trick you, is it working? Aw, I just about had you, didn't I?"

"Is this what you've been thumbing in your pack?" she asked. Time had made the petals brittle and deepened their color from a red to burgundy. "I thought that..." he'd been upset with how easily she let Faeron leave. She shouldn't have been so relieved with how her guilt had been absolved.

"Well that and what's left of a wedge of dragon's breath blue that I didn't want to share with anyone," he replied. "But I think Edgar's mabari was on to me about that. It's a rose. I found it at Ostagar. All by itself in the middle of a battlefield. How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much darkness and ugliness?"

Fran smiled up at him. "Bhelen found the next queen in Dust Town." She wasn't entirely sure if Alistair got her sentiment.

"I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't," he said. "It would have gotten trampled in the battle and the darkspawn and their taint would just destroy it. I've had it ever since."

"And now you're giving it to me?" she asked.

"Well, yeah." His brows furrowed. Maybe it was she who wasn't getting his sentiment. "I thought you might like it. In a lot of ways, I think the same way when I look at you. You've just been having such a horrible time since joining the Wardens and that's not what we're really about. I can't change what's already happened, but maybe together we can work to fix it?"

Her best friend died and she received a rose. She supposed it was more than what her mother would have given her. Or the carta. Anyone in Dust Town, really. It's aroma was more intense since it had been dried. "Thanks, Alistair. It means a lot."

"Good." He nodded, jerky and quick. "I'm glad."

"I've never seen trees with brown leaves, before," she noted. The green had faded to a sickly yellow and now all the trees in their immediate path had shriveled brown leaves that wilted out of their branches.

Alistair looked troubled. "No, they shouldn't be this early in the season," he murmured. "I don't sense any darkspawn, do you?"

"No." Frannie's fingers danced along the dried petal of the rose.

Alistair's shoulders were tense and Morrigan looked more sour than usual. Little flies hovered over the base of the trees and it smelled like something was rotting. Sweet, like fruit and overpowering.

"Not another step, travelers," a voice announced. Male, but higher than most dwarves. There was a familiar tinny to it, but Frannie couldn't place it precisely. "You should turn back. This land is tainted and we've had our arrows trained on you for a while."

"Tainted?" Alistair asked. "We're trying to reach Redcliffe."

"Edgar?" Silfee propped her hands on her hips and scowled. "Edgar Oren Cousland, if that is you, I swear to the Maker I will be very cross!"

"Silfee?" Edgar's voice trailed from high up one of the trees. He began to laugh. "Silfee, it's you? Get over here!"

Dead leaves rustled as Edgar slid down the tree. He rushed the group, threw his arms around his sister and lifted her off the ground as she kicked and screamed. "You'll never believe what's happening here!" he exclaimed.

"Get off me!" The pitch that Silfee's voice rose to, along with Edgar's laughter, reminded Frannie more of children and less like refined nobles. Silfee stomped on her brother's foot until he dropped his arms. "I'm angry with you!"

As the Couslands created a commotion, more bodies climbed down trees and stepped out from behind gnarled trunks. Rastaban was petulant as usual and Adele shadowed him. Chester wagged his stump of a tail and his tongue lolled. Sten stood off, away from the main group, while some humans that Frannie didn't recognize joined them.

"You're really upset?" Edgar asked. His melodramatic pout melted into genuine concern. "Something happened in Orzammar, Silfee?"

"Silfee Cousland." The human gentleman cleared his throat and smiled at her. "You are looking as beautiful as ever."

Her cheeks flushed pink and she began to brush invisible dust from her armor. "Bann Teagan, your timing is as impeccable as always. I hope one day you will not find me so disheveled and out of sorts."

"Bann Teagan." Alistair flung a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You know him?" Frannie asked.

"Yes." He dragged his hands across his cheeks before they found his scalp. "Look, Bann Teagan's brother, Arl Eamon raised me, because my father is, was... well, I know I should've told you this already, but we keep getting into situations where trying not to die becomes more pressing than my lineage."

"Alistair..."

"I'm getting there, I promise," he said. "People just always treat me differently after they know and I like the way you treat me now and I don't want you looking at me all funny."

"I'm looking at you funny now, Alistair," Frannie said slowly. "Because you're behaving very oddly."

His head tilted back as he groaned. "King Maric was my father. There. I said it. Want to use me as a political pawn now or marry me for a kingdom? It won't work. I'm a bastard with no claim to the throne."

Frannie was obviously missing something. Human politics apparently differed from dwarves where child rearing was concerned. "Your father didn't raise you?"

"My mother was a serving girl and not the queen," he explained. "I was always told she died in childbirth. My father didn't want a smudge on his wife's memory or Cailan's claim to the throne threatened."

"I'm not sure I understand," Frannie said. "Are you a prince or not?"

"Oh Maker, no." Alistair grimaced. "Arl Eamon has a more legitimate claim to the throne than I do, anyway, I don't want it."

She nodded. "So it's just something I can tease you about, then."

"Yes! Exactly!" He paused. "No! Wait, I mean, fine. All in good fun, right? Have a laugh."

With that, Alistair headed to Bann Teagan and gripped the other man's hand. "Bann Teagan, it's been a while. You probably remember me younger. And covered in mud."

There was a moment, as the bann stared Alistair down. He broke into a warm smile. "Alistair? This is wonderful news! Truly this has been an occasion for reunions."

Nema bypassed everyone and made her way directly to Bann Teagan. "What is happening here?" she demanded.

"Unnatural things, I fear," Bann Teagan replied.

Edgar laughed. "Well, look on the bright side," he said. "At least it wasn't darkspawn!"

A muscle along Rastaban's jaw twitched as he clenched his mouth shut tighter. Adele reached a hand for him, but thought better of it and then walked her fingers along Chester's back. The mabari rewarded her with a wet muzzle against her palm.

"It would be better, I think," Teagan said, "if I show you all."

The onslaught had been quick, fierce and confusing. A swarm of... things, swept through the village to wrench woman out of windows, set carts on fire and leave nothing but blood and gristle in their wake. Even Bann Teagan had lost one of his personal guard in the attack.

The creatures looked human. Sort of. The smell of them was enough for Frannie to turn her head away. Heat and fast decomposition.

"There had been an outbreak of plague in the Alienage years ago," Adele murmured. "A lot of people dying faster than they could be buried. The smell reminds me of that. Hahren Valendrian finally opted for a mass crematory pyre to deal just to keep up with the dead."

"Because an enormous bonfire in the center of the Alienage wouldn't attract attention from the humans," Nema snapped.

That made Frannie give the elf a look, but the only answer Nema gave anyone was her frosty glare.

The color had drained from Bann Teagan's face as he surveyed the carnage. Tanners racks had been tipped over, the skins stretched across them had been stabbed full of holes. Straw from the thatched roofs was scattered over the cobblestone walkways along with dark splatters that Fran refused to identify. "I apologize that I have no explanation for these abominations."

"Abominations are mages possessed by demons," Edgar told Teagan. He poked one of the bodies on the ground with his sword. "These don't look like mages."

"These poor people," Wynne said. The old woman went to her knees beside one of the withered corpses and Alistair rushed to her side and hovered over her. She waved away his concern. "These aren't creatures. They were human, once."

"I don't understand," Alistair said. He knelt down next to her and began to examine the corpse. "You mean like how darkspawn were once men? These aren't darkspawn."

"How long has the arl had a mage in his castle?" Nema asked Bann Teagan.

Teagan frowned. "What? There aren't any mages at the castle."

Donal smirked at Morrigan and she rolled her eyes. He walked over and shrugged. "Using magic to reanimate corpses tends to be frowned upon by the Chantry," he said. "It's up there with blood magic."

"I beg your pardon?" Teagan said.

"Donal Amell," Donal replied. "Typical, scholarly, shut-in mage at your service. What I believe Wynne is saying is that what attacked the village was Redcliffe's own dead, possessed by some bastard of a mage for reasons of his or her own."

"I would not have worded it quite like that, Donal," Wynne said. "But, yes. It does appear to be the work of some evil magic."

"Oh, Maker," the bann placed a hand on his chest. "So then it's worse than I feared." He glanced over his shoulder and toward the castle walls that loomed in the distance. "No one has heard from the castle in days. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts.

'The attacks started a few nights ago. These... things... surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault."

Edgar nodded his head feverishly. "We set up a perimeter and have been forcing the creatures back and warning unsuspecting travelers!"

"Thank you, Edgar," Teagan said. "Each night they come with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help."

Nema's brow dipped lower and angrier. "So we are on our own, then."

Oghren barked out a laugh. "I like these odds."

"Lovely." Donal sighed.

"I have a feeling tonight's assault will be the worst, yet," Teagan continued. He was an attractive man, Frannie supposed, but the worry lines etched across his forehead had aged him. "I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends."

"Can we?" Edgar asked. His eyes held a fervid excitement. "I think we should."

Alistair rested a hand on his brow to block the glare of the setting sun as he stared at the castle. It stood silent and unmoving. "The Grey Wardens don't stand much of a chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon."

"So we're helping him?" Edgar asked. He broke into a broad smile.

Nema held up a hand to silence him. "How much aid could this arl truly provide? Shouldn't he have knights defending his castle and village?"

"You would turn your back on these people because they're not as powerful as you'd like?" Alistair's nostrils flared.

"I'm trying to weigh the worth of the action," she said. "We possess fewer Wardens than they do villagers. If I'm to risk losing one of you, the gain must be worth it."

"So you do miss Faeron," Frannie realized.

Nema only glared.

Bann Teagan nodded to her. "The arlessa sent the knights of Redcliffe out on a quest to seek aid for my brother's condition. They are scattered across Ferelden and left Redcliffe unguarded."

"Wouldn't it be nice," Donal said airily, "if just once, we show up to a place with no turmoil and when we show them the ancient treaties, they honor their obligation without making us work for it?"

"My sword has been returned to me." Sten walked forward slowly and flexed. Unsheathed, the great sword was an extension of his arms. "Asala. We lacked the coin to bribe the collector. This Bann Teagan bought it back for me. I will fight for him."

Edgar whooped and pounded on Bann Teagan's back. "That makes two of us. Come on, Silfee!"

"I will," she sniffed. Silfee turned her upturned nose even further into the air. "But I'm doing it for the bann, not for you, Edgar."

Rastaban and Adele quietly joined the ranks behind Bann Teagan. Oghren sighed and followed them as he tested the weight of his axe.

"The Maker would not want us to turn our back on this injustice," Leliana said as she moved.

"No," Wynne agreed. "It is the right thing to do."

"I would like to help, if everyone else agrees," Alistair said.

Donal touched Morrigan's wrist and she jerked her arm from him. "I think it's decided," he said as he pointed to the sun that dipped behind the cliffs. "Even if we refuse, we'll have to camp here for the night. And these things attack at night."

"If we help you with this," Nema looked the bann over, "will we have the full strength of Redcliffe behind us when facing Loghain."

"I can guarantee you Rainesfere," he said. "And I promise to do everything in my power to convince my brother. I do not think it will be very difficult, all things considered."

Nema nodded. "That is acceptable."


	25. Chapter 25

Bann Teagan was a brilliant man. He was kind to Edgar, Maker knew why, and because of that, Edgar's fondness of the other man only grew.

Now that they were all reunited, Teagan was filling Alistair and some of the other newcomers in on their battle tactics. The information wasn't anything new to Edgar and he could feel himself getting squirrely. He excused himself and made his way through the large, polished wood door of the Chantry.

Inside, villagers nailed planks of wood across the delicate stained glass windows and attended to other repairs. There was a nervousness, a panic and raw fear as they carried on their duties, but if Edgar closed his eyes, there was a soothing comfort. It still smelled of old paper and candle wax and made him think of earlier times, when his mother required he and his sister to memorize the Chant of Light back in Highever.

He knew he would find Silfee there, and sure enough, she was kneeling before a statue of Andraste. With her hands locked together and her eyes clenched shut, his sister wasn't praying, but muttering angrily.

Edgar didn't need to hear the words. He recognized the posture.

"To you, my second-born, I grant this gift," he said as he drew near to her. "In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame-"

"-All-consuming, and never satisfied," she finished for him. "Yes, yes. What do you want, Edgar?"

"For you to look at me, for one." He jutted his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout.

Silfee just snarled at him. Edgar sat down on the floor beside her. He reached for her shoulder and she jerked away.

"I haven't seen you this agitated since all those ladies from West Hill and Harper's Ford declared you a whore and snubbed you," he said. "And that was many years ago."

Silfee's knuckles blanched beneath her grip and he noticed she was trembling. "But you fixed it, then."

"As best I could." He hadn't anticipated getting so furious with those vapid women and those vapid games they were playing, but games were supposed to be fun. They weren't supposed to leave his sixteen year old sister sobbing in the Highever Chantry.

Edgar still felt guilt over it. Mother would have been ashamed if she knew he willfully lured every single cruel woman to his bed, one at a time, only so that he could intentionally call them by the other one's name at a party the following weekend. It had caused quite the commotion when they realized they had just been momentary playthings and didn't stand a chance in becoming a Teyrna of Highever.

But it made Silfee smile again. And sometimes, that was worth it.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked.

She sighed. "No." Silfee dropped her hands and joined him on the stone floor. "But you left."

"I can't always be with you." He didn't like the long silence that was dragging on, so he added, "It looked like you had everything under control."

"Bad things always happen when we separate." Her voice was pitiful, small. They were children again, but their mother wasn't there to kiss it better.

"That doesn't always work," he told her. "We were at home together when Howe came."

"We were in separate rooms."

"Silfee."

"Hmm?"

"What happened in Orzammar?"

And so she told him. About the Broodmother. About how darkspawn were born. About how it used to be a woman. About how it could have been her.

Edgar felt like a buffoon. All he could do was rock her in his arms and kiss her forehead. His parents, with their education and wisdom would have known what to do, but the only thing he could think to say was, "It's not fair, is it?"

"And I noticed I cut myself and I was so convinced I'd been infected." Silfee rubbed at her nose. "I kept waiting to get sick; I kept waiting to die from the taint."

"That's awful."

It wasn't fair. He'd chased after his father and screamed it down the halls of the castle. It wasn't fair. There were so many stipulations tied into honor and expectation. Edgar wanted to play with musical instruments and swords, he wanted to recite poetry and roll around with his mabari in the mud.

It wasn't fair when his parents laughed at him for his boyish fancies and it wasn't fair when they took Silfee and locked her away for all those months. It wasn't fair when they expected him to continue his studies and pretend like everything was normal. And it wasn't fair that his parents knew just how awful it was and did it anyway.

So he'd followed his father down the hallway, and slapped at the tapestries and other wall hangings as he raged and tantrumed about just how unfair it was. It was the only time Edgar could remember his father backhanding him across the face. Perhaps it was a testament to just how shaken Bryce Cousland had been at the time. All his father said was, "Be a man," and then he stormed off.

Be a man. Edgar hadn't understood what that meant at the time. Even now, he had trouble grasping what his father meant. He hoped that his father would be proud of his actions, so far.

"And when I didn't get sick, I felt so stupid for assuming," Silfee continued. "But if I had just ignored it only to get sick, I would have been even stupider."

"I don't think you look stupid," he said.

"I feel stupid," she replied.

"Not at all." Edgar closed his eyes as he squeezed her. "You feel... like a heap of gelatinous goo, barely contained within a crust of armor."

Silfee shoved him away. "You're such a tit, sometimes."

"What's this?" He placed a hand over his mouth, partly to hide his grin. "Uncouth words from the prim and proper Silfee Cousland? Unthinkable! Besides, don't you usually prefer to call me a twat over tit when I upset you?"

"Both," she said with a laugh. "You are both in one at the same time."

Edgar nodded. "Good. Do you feel better?"

She nodded back at him. "Yes. Thank you."

"Oh, good!" He leaned back on his hands and beamed at her. "So, there's this lovely girl, here. Kaitlyn, I think her name is. She lost her brother on the first night of the attacks, so I of course had to venture out and find the boy, perfectly unharmed. I was a proper gentleman, I didn't demand money or reward, just a kiss."

"Oh, just a kiss?"

"Yes. Just the kiss. I was quite impressed with myself, actually."

"All my previous statements about you stand." Silfee snickered as she pushed herself up off the ground. "Father would be ever so cross with you if he knew how often you toyed with the affections of commoners."

Edgar crossed his arms and pouted. "Hey, you don't know. She could be the one."

"Oh, brother." She gave his head a pat. "You could never leave it at just the one." And with that, Silfee walked off.

Edgar snorted and turned to the statue of Andraste and thumbed its marble cheek. "Hello, old girl," he murmured. "You were my first love, I promise."

In the area just before the statue, the floor was slightly more worn than in the rest of the Chantry. Edgar settled his knees into those ancient impressions and began to pray.

"Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me."

His father always told him to be a man. No explanation, no example. Just be a man. Maker knew, Edgar was trying. He wondered what his father would think of the current situation.

Outside, he could hear the battle horn of the gathering troops. Farmers, shopkeepers, frightened peasantry. They fought because they had no choice and had nothing left. He strove to strengthen their arms, to improve their odds.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

Edgar kissed his fingertips and then pressed them against the statue's lips. An old habit that had got him the odd glance in the past, but he'd decided long ago that a kiss from a pretty girl always brought good luck. And with luck, they'd live to see the morning. Maker willing, they'd see the morning.


	26. Chapter 26

"There's a certain technique to killing these things, no?" Zevran was saying to Oghren.

"Technique?" The dwarf laughed. "Maybe you need technique. I've got a big, sodding axe."

Zevran's teeth practically glittered in the warm light of morning as he grinned. "They are reanimated by magic, because they are already dead, yes? So a mortal wound to any other creature is not always effective. You have to disable their limbs to ensure they cannot keep fighting."

Oghren stared at him.

"What is the adage?" Zevran asked. "I kill you once, shame on you; I kill you twice, shame on me?"

"I swing my axe and they go down," Oghren said.

Donal snorted. It looked as though most of the villagers had lived to see the new day, but he would have to check with Bann Teagan for an official count. Nema had discovered that those things went up like tinder when set alight which had made for quite the display. Unfortunately, they didn't die immediately and kept moving and homes and shops were also flammable. Donal idly wondered what had been worse, the undead monstrosities marauding Redcliffe, or how very nearly the village turned into one enormous bonfire?

Aside from Zevran and Oghren comparing technique, Sten was busy reinforcing weak points along the Chantry. Leliana and the Couslands were singing hymns to a small group of children. Nema was off by herself, she stood on a dock and stared off at Lake Calenhad in the direction of the Circle.

He missed the massive tower library. That, and one of the lesser known talents of the tranquil was that they could make a mean cup of tea. The tea they had brewed camp side had been less mean, more bitter and distraught.

What would First Enchanter Irving think of the dead staggering through Redcliffe, Donal wondered. Disappointment, most likely. Maybe shame. They would have cremated the dead mages and Templars in the tower by this time. With the Circle so close to this village, it was obvious that they weren't as thorough as they'd believed. Something got out.

Morrigan was picking herbs out of the Chantry's garden. Long, lithe limbs reached for elfroot and her spine reminded him of a serpent as she crouched down on her haunches. He found it fascinating how she, with her pale skin, never seemed to get sunburned. Donal walked over to her until he could see his shadow cut across her back.

"Unless you are here to inform me that Flemeth is dead, I have no wish to speak with you." She didn't even bother to look up.

Typical. "We've just been reunited with everyone," he said. "I need more time before I can divert them."

"This isn't a social call." Morrigan turned to glare at him. "The longer she lives, the more likely it is that I will not."

"As soon as we conclude business here, our next stop is the Dalish in the Brecelian Forest, correct?" he said. "The Korcari Wilds are also in that direction from here. I promise you, I won't allow your mother to hurt you."

"Hurt me, no." She grasped a stalk of elfroot and wrenched it from the ground. Chunks of dirt spattered out from the naked roots. "Kill me, yes. Do not make promises you have no way of guaranteeing."

"It is unwise to make promises unless you intend to keep them." He nodded. "I want you to have faith in me, but we have to be patient if we're going to do this correctly."

"Patience?" Morrigan's mouth twisted. "Are we to wait out my death?"

"No," Donal said. "But it's important enough that I don't want to make a mistake. You know, look before you leap and all that."

She turned back to her plants. "I'm more fond of, he who hesitates is lost."

"You would, I suppose." He crouched beside her. "You're picking weeds now. Why?"

"It's brambleweed," she said. "Useless by itself, but very sticky when ground up. It adheres to other agents and helps make them more effective."

Donal grinned. "So would you say I'm like brambleweed? I just have to stick to you?"

She glowered. "No. I would say you're more irritating than a weed."

"Aren't you supposed to rub all your irritations with balm?" He ducked in for a lightning quick peck on her cheek and darted away before she could slap him off her.

"I'm done talking with you," Morrigan insisted.

Donal hopped to his feet and left the Chantry gardens. He climbed up the worn dirt path, past the Chantry and up a hill, beyond a tiny land bridge toward the mill. On the very top of the hill, Bann Teagan stood at the doorway of the mill with Alistair, Adele and Rastaban.

Teagan didn't appear particularly noble, standing on that hill. Stubble dotted his face and his eyes looked as though they could use some more sleep. Had Donal not been touched by magic, had he stayed with his family in Kirkwall, perhaps he would have had a similar life to the bann's, preferably with fewer walking corpses. He shook away the thought.

"Sort of like coming home again," Alistair commented. "But with more undead."

Right. Donal supposed it was good to see that the destruction of the other man's childhood home hadn't traumatized him.

"Odd, how quiet the castle looks from here," Teagan murmured to himself. It left Donal stroking his chin. He wondered if he could pull off stubble like Bann Teagan? He wasn't even sure if he was capable of growing any to pull off. "You would think there was nobody inside at all."

Bann Teagan turned to face them and he smiled, despite the destroyed village and his own personal disarray. "But I shouldn't delay things further," he said. "I had a plan... to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family."

That made Donal laugh, which brought all their eyes to him. He felt their gazes, some inquisitive, others dagger-like, and he coughed.

"Smart," Donal said, when the silence continued too long. "Use us to save the village before you let us know there's a way into the castle."

Adele frowned at his comment. "You would have abandoned the villagers?" she asked.

"You Grey Wardens have an obligation to stop the Blight, don't you?" Donal replied. "What's one village versus the cost of what a Blight could kill? I like the quick thinking, Bann Teagan."

"Maker's breath!" Teagan exclaimed.

Donal was just about to groan when he noticed that the other man was pointing behind them. An out of breath woman accompanied by a guard was running to them frantically. She wasn't just any villager, her dress was made of fine silks and embroidered in a costly way that wasn't normally found in Ferelden.

"Teagan!" she gasped as she leaned against her thighs and caught her breath. "Thank the Maker you yet live!"

"Isolde!" Teagan was looking her over, checking for injury. "You're alive! How did you...? What has happened?"

Between her thick Orlesian accent and Teagan's familiarity with her, Donal assumed that she was the Arlessa of Redcliffe. There had been a huge scandal years ago when Arl Eamon chose an Orlesian woman for his wife so soon after the war. She was pretty, Donal would credit the arl that. And young. She appeared younger than Teagan, who was quite a few years younger than his older brother.

Must be nice to be the arl.

"I do not have much time to explain!" Isolde kept darting furtive glances to Teagan, the guard, and back up the bridge toward the castle. "I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over and I must return quickly. And I..." She glanced down, almost like a naughty child before she composed herself and stared at Teagan. "I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."

Because that sounded perfectly reasonable. Safe. Sane. Donal bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing, again.

"Why don't we all go to the castle?" Rastaban spoke suddenly. With the certainty in his voice and the narrowed set of his eye, it sounded less like a suggestion and more like a demand.

"What?" Isolde blinked, taken aback. She seemed displeased that she had an audience. The guard at her side felt increasingly less like a safety measure for her, and more like an escort brought for the bann. "I... Who is this man, Teagan?"

Alistair stepped forward with a sigh. "You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?"

That got her nose to rankle. "Alistair? Of all the... why are you here?"

Great. Alistair was going to be the one to smooth things over? Donal had to keep his wits about him and stop viewing the whole thing as a comedy of errors. Were the Grey Wardens always accepted with such disdain? All they needed now was for Nema to storm up with her lovely demeanor and start trying to bully her way into things.

"They are Grey Wardens, Isolde." Teagan placed a hand upon her shoulder. It appeared to sooth her, for the moment. "I owe them my life."

The woman was shaken. She ran trembling fingers across her face. "Pardon me," Isolde said. She took a deep breath. "I would exchange pleasantries, but considering the circumstances..."

"Please, Lady Isolde." Alistair was oddly familiar with the woman. He spoke both calmly and freely, but given the way Alistair's eyes would trail down and not look her in the eye, Donal got the distinct impression that they were not friends. "We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers."

"I know you need more of an explanation." Isolde turned abruptly away from Alistair and faced Teagan, again. "But I don't know what is safe to tell."

The bann's features softened and the lady's guard shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle," Isolde continued. "The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues."

"Told you it was a mage," Donal muttered at Rastaban. Had he bet any coin on it? He should have.

Isolde was clutching at Teagan's chest, now. "I think Connor is going mad," she said. "We have survived, but he won't flee the castle. He has seen so much death!"

Connor Guerrin, the young son of Eamon and Isolde. Donal frowned. The kid couldn't have seen more than ten seasons or so, one would think that if he was too traumatized to move, his mother along with her guard could just physically carry him from the castle. Or were ten year old nobility so spoiled that they could tantrum and disrespect their mothers even in desperate situations such as these?

"You must help him, Teagan!" Isolde's voice arched and cracked. "You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!"

"What about Eamon?" Alistair asked. "Is he still alive?"

That got Isolde to look back at them. "He is," she said. She was haggard with her red rimmed eyes that sank into a too pale face. Gold hair fell loose from a bun that should have been smoothed back. "He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker."

"Kept alive?" Teagan frowned. "Kept alive by what?"

Isolde shook her head. "Something the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor and myself to live.

"The others were not so fortunate. It's killed so many and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village!"

Great. Donal rubbed the bridge of his nose. They locked up the mage responsible, but let the demon he unleashed roam free. Nothing could ever be simple. A Blight would be too easy to overcome on its own, the people needed dirty politics and Fade demons thrown into the mix, as well. With Morrigan insisting on matricide now along with everything else, it was a small wonder that they had accomplished anything.

Isolde got her way and Teagan left with her. Before he left, Teagan gripped Alistair's hand warmly and whispered his goodbyes to the other man. As Teagan and Isolde grew smaller and vanished up the bridge toward the castle, Alistair stared at his outstretched palm. The signet ring he held was expertly crafted, but time had tarnished the metal.

If Donal could figure out what demon was at work, that would help his planning. Certainly not a sloth demon, but pride and desire were both known for their garish, outward displays.

"Right." Alistair closed his fist around the signet ring and marched toward the mill. "I'm going."

"Now, wait just a minute." Donal waved a hand to stop him. "This is a covert affair and we can't take everybody. A demon's loose, so magic at our disposal will help. As much as I hate to admit it, we could probably use Nema on this one."

"I'm going," Alistair insisted. "I owe Eamon that much."

"We need people to stay back and reinforce the village, too," Adele said. The wind atop the hill seemed to carry her airy, little voice.

"Yeah." Donal pointed at her. "That too."

"Mages and thieves," Rastaban said. "You need people that can sneak and skulk in the shadows to ensure your mages are successful."

"I'm still going," Alistair said.

Donal nodded with a sigh. "And Alistair. Mages, thieves and Alistair. His Templar training may come in handy."

"Thanks, Donal," Alistair said.

That made Donal laugh. "Don't thank me, yet. There's plenty of time to regret that decision once we get in there."


	27. Chapter 27

The initial shock of the attack had worn off and the inside of the Chantry bustled with a frantic sort of energy. Rastaban quietly pressed his back against a wall and tried to make himself invisible.

The human gods were not his gods. He did not belong there.

Shale and Sten also made for awkward pillars as they too stood along the wall quietly. To see the strongest of their companions stand idly and uncomfortably, it made Rastaban begin to question their choices. He hoped he was right in trusting Donal's judgment and that all they needed were mages and stealth. Aside from Alistair, Donal's team was lacking in terms of brute force. The mage insisted on including Morrigan and he grudgingly accepted Nema's aid. On Rastaban's recommendation, they brought along both Zevran and Adele. Separated from Sten and the dog, it would be Adele's chance to stand on her own or die.

Rastaban hoped he chose wisely. She was out of the realm of his protection and in Mythal's hands, now.

It made for a motley crew left within the Chantry. The dwarf, Oghren, had formed a drinking circle with some of the panicked villagers, while the revered mother looked on with a stern, disapproving glare. Silfee Cousland was creating more unnecessary drama, falling into fits when she realized that Bann Teagan willingly submitted to whatever trap was waiting for him back at the castle.

"He had no right!" she exclaimed. "Why did no one inform me of this foolish plan of his?"

"Because we knew you would react exactly as you are right now," her brother replied.

Silfee raised her hands, but instead of a retort, turned and stormed off with Edgar still on her heels. Rastaban shook his head. He didn't want to admit it, but their petty arguments brought him a nice reprieve. All the villagers needed was assurance and some guidance so that they didn't fall into riots, and the presence of Grey Wardens did more than any actual action on their part. Necessary, but mundane. And it was the long gaps of quiet nothing that Rastaban wished to avoid.

Could the others hear it as he could? The archdemon was too provocative to ignore. Any voice other than that monster's was welcome. Rastaban would soak up their silly squabbles and use it as an armor against the Calling.

"It's not fair," Silfee was saying. "I should be in the castle with the others."

"I know it's difficult to not act when friends have knowingly entered dangerous situations," Wynne replied. "But I think it was wise of them to keep their numbers down."

"Says the woman who was asked to join them, but outright refused!" Silfee snapped.

Wynne's soft, clucking laughter uncurled Rastaban's fist. "Could you imagine my old bones skulking around in the dark?" she asked. "No, my talents are more needed here. The potential for illness in the village is enough for me to stay here and insure that it doesn't happen."

Silfee crossed her arms. "I still don't see why I wasn't asked to go to the castle."

"I'm sure they can hear you all the way from the castle," Edgar chuckled. It earned him a glare.

"I am concerned for them," Wynne admitted. She sat down on one of the rows of benches and folded her hands in her lap. "In this short time I've come to care a great deal about this odd group we've amassed. Dare I say that I even feel motherly toward some."

Edgar plopped down next to her. "Motherly? Toward whom?"

Wynne smiled. "Well, Alistair, for one."

"Not me?"

"Why, yes." She patted his cheek. "I suppose I feel motherly toward you too, Edgar."

"Oh good!" Edgar bent over and dragged his heavy travel sack closer to them. "Because I have a few stinkier items in here that could certainly use a mother's touch."

Wynne lightly pushed his grinning face away. "Yes, when I see how bright eyed and endearing both you and Alistair are, I like to think that's how my son would have been."

Edgar had busied himself by digging through the contents of his pack. "If you had one, you mean?"

"I did have one, Edgar."

"Huh?" That got his attention. The young man dropped a dirty sock back into his pack. "You? But- I mean, how...?"

"Your mother never told you?" Wynne was laughing in earnest, now. "You should listen closely, then, young man, because I fear you will come across this side effect sooner rather than later given your antics with the good women of every little hamlet we come through."

"I just meant-"

"When a man and a woman love each other very, very much-"

"But you're a mage!" Edgar's face was a bright flaming red. His shout lanced across the dull hum and bustle in the Chantry. The silence that followed was telling, as everyone seemed to edge closer and eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Mages are allowed to marry," Wynne said. "Not that it's common practice. Not that I was. But we are all people and we all have urges like everyone else, and have been known to seek out the company of others."

"You had a son?" Edgar asked. "You're not just putting me on?"

"I did," Wynne said. "But that was a long time ago."

He leaned closer to her and whispered loud enough for the rest of the Chantry to hear, "What happened?"

Her shoulders lifted in a meek shrug. "I wasn't allowed to keep him."

"He was your son." The soles of Silfee's boots clicked sternly against the stone tiles of the floor as she marched over to them.

"Yes," Wynne said.

"No one could just take him from you." Silfee pointed her finger like a weapon at the mage.

Wynne nodded with a frown. "I was exhausted," she said. "I had just been through labor and delivery. They came in and took him away from me. I was too weak to stop them. I haven't heard of him since."

"No!" Silfee snapped. "You should have fought them! They had no right to rip that babe away from his mother!"

Edgar reached a hand out to his sister. "Silfee..."

"I would have fought them!" she raged. "They had no right! It wasn't fair."

"It wasn't," Wynne said. "But it was what happened. It was many years ago, but I still think about it from time to time."

"Silfee, let's..." Edgar tapped his fingers against his thigh, before he quickly kissed Wynne on her forehead. "Silfee, can you help me with Chester? I think he's due for a b-a-t-h and I won't be able to do it by myself."

The mabari's ears perked up at his name and then the dog was fleeing toward the exit. Edgar was on his feet, then, and he pulled Silfee behind him as he dashed after his dog.

Not all mothers care for their children. Rastaban's own mother had left him in the capable hands of the Keeper on that day she wandered from the camp, never to be seen again. Odd that the humans took such a strong stance on the possession of children. Rastaban had thought the only thoughts to occupy Silfee Cousland's mind were of powder cakes and which men desired her.

Wynne appeared to be pleased with the silence that blanketed them all as the Couslands left. Rastaban's nose twitched and he ground his teeth. He could hear it, again. He wasn't supposed to understand it. He wasn't supposed to want to obey.

Come.

Unite.

He lurched away from the archdemon's silent plea and walked to Sten. "We do not belong here."

Gather.

Overcome.

"Yes," was all the qunari would say.

The polish smeared across the wood invaded Rastaban's nostrils and blood pounded behind his eyes. "I do not like it," he said.

Sten looked at him with cold, violet eyes. "We are warriors," he said. "Our home, where we belong, is on the battlefield. Everything else is a test of patience."

Patience. Keeper Marethari often stressed patience to Rastaban. He tended to feel that those tests of patience felt more akin to exercises in frustration. How could he be patient when he could sense his time leaving him, like children grasping fistfuls of sand?

Rastaban muttered a quick prayer to Andruil, to grant his companions haste in their mission. It ended in more of a plea than request over his growing weakness. The archdemon's call for blood was compelling, and for now, he could guarantee that it would be darkspawn blood that tarnished his steel.

The Dread Wolf had claimed a new name for itself. Urthemiel. Rastaban prayed to have the strength to see this journey to its end. The trick would be to have the wisdom to tell the difference between actual strength and stubborn belligerence. That thought made him snort. He and Marethari would have much to discuss.


	28. Chapter 28

"Of course. It had to be you, you backwards, selfish, whore-devouring sack of tits!"

Adele flinched. If anyone in the Alienage heard her say something like that, she would have limped to her chores with a sore bottom and a mouthful of soap. Only when Zevran touched her wrist and brought a single finger to his lips did she realize she was holding her breath. She silently released the little gasp of air and joined him in watching Donal.

The mage's face was streaked blotchy scarlet as he spewed obscenities at the man locked in a prison cell in the basement of Redcliffe castle. They obviously knew each other, but the vitriol that came so easily to Donal, his anger, made Adele's throat seize up. She couldn't remember ever being that furious, even with Vaughn and all of his atrocities; sadness and shame it seemed were always the first emotions that bubbled to her surface.

Her father had taught her to embrace a softer touch. The bending willow was able to survive the storms while the proud oak was uprooted. Her mother had been prone to spikes in temper, as had Shianni. They had both suffered for their principles.

The imprisoned man locked his hands around the bars of his cell. Greasy, dark hair clung to his face and the bruise on his cheek looked a few days old. "I never thought I'd see you again, of all people."

"That's it?" Donal spluttered. "That's all you can think to say after what you did?" He lurched forward and gripped the bars as he continued screaming. "I trusted you! I helped you! And for what? So the Knight Commander could label me an elopement risk? So you could skip a village over and poison an arl? Your phylactery's gone and this is the best you can come up with? You-"

"I know-"

"-Ass philandering-"

"-For all I know, the arl's already dead-"

"-piss ant-"

"Donal, please-"

"-waste of seed-"

"Donal..."

"Maker forsaken vial of excrement!"

"Donal!" the prisoner snapped over Donal's tirade. "Will you just shut up? I need to know! What became of Lily?"

That got a laugh out of Donal. "Lily? Now you're concerned?"

The smells of dust and wet stone were overcast by metal and blood. Adele wished there was more light in the dungeon, her companions' faces turned strange colors beneath the sparse flickering torches.

"They didn't hurt her, did they?" the other man sounded desperate as he clung to the bars. "The thought that she might have paid for my crime..."

"What do you think?" Donal let go of the bars long enough to wave his hands around madly. "It was all laughs and kittens once you left? Aeonar, you dolt! She went to Aeonar, the joyful resort for Chantry girls who disregard their vows!"

"Oh." The prisoner swallowed and brought a hand to the mottled bruise on his cheek. "My poor Lily! She must hate me now, if she even lives. What have I done?"

"Turned to blood magic and poisoned an arl," Donal replied. He turned to face the others and gestured to the cell behind him. "This is Jowan."

"Oh, bloody hell," Jowan muttered. "You brought Nema along."

"Hello, Jowan," Nema said. Adele didn't know much about Nema, but she did know she didn't appreciate the way the other woman was smiling.

"A blood mage?" Alistair asked. "You know this man?"

"He's my best friend," Donal said. "I think. I don't know, anymore. What do you say, Jowan?"

Jowan grimaced. "We were friends, once. I know I don't deserve to call you that after what I did."

"You foolish ass!" Donal was back to raging at the cell bars. "Why would you poison the arl?"

Jowan glanced over his shoulder as if some specter in the shadows of his prison could overhear. He crept close to the bars and then lowered his voice. "I was instructed to by Teryn Loghain," he said. "I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle."

"Why would an apostate be welcome in Redcliffe Castle?" Adele murmured.

Her question was answered by Zevran's hand gripped around her wrist. He made a shushing noise. "Sometimes, we get more answers by not intervening," he whispered. "Sit back and enjoy the show."

"All I wanted was to be able to return," Jowan said. "But he abandoned me here, didn't he? Everything's fallen apart. I never thought it would end like this!"

Donal's brow sunk down to an angrier expression, but he kept silent.

"Maker, I've made so many mistakes." Jowan buried his face in his hands. "I've disappointed so many people... I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything right again."

Donal pinched the bridge of his nose. "So the teryn hired you to poison Arl Eamon."

Jowan dropped his hands. "Connor had started to show... signs," he said. "Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training."

"Connor?" Alistair interrupted with a furrowed brow. "A mage? I can't believe it!"

That got a wry grin out of Donal. "Noble bloodlines aren't allowed a bit of magic now and then, are they?"

"She sought a mage outside the Circle, to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent," Jowan continued. "Her husband had no idea."

Donal crossed his arms. "And you have nothing to do with-"

"No!"

"Just like you had nothing to do with blood magic?"

"I dabbled!" Jowan ran a hand though his filthy hair and winced at some invisible injury. "I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when it began."

"And the only other mage in the castle is a boy." Nema raised one delicate eyebrow.

"I thought that, too," Jowan replied. "Connor has little knowledge of magic, but he may have done something to tear open the Veil."

"Or he's an abomination, now," Nema said.

"I forgot how pleasant you were, Nema," Jowan scoffed. "No, no, no, he could have just loosed some demons through the Veil or it could be someone else. I don't know."

She shrugged. "Or he has a demon inside him. All of these are possible."

"Is there something we can do if the boy's an abomination?" Adele asked. Her voice sounded taut and metallic as it bounced off the dank corridors.

"A quick, painless death." Alistair's mouth twisted, angry at the words that just left his lips.

"The arl's a decent man," Jowan said. "I wondered how he could possibly be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyway. I'm such a fool."

Donal sighed. He pushed his back against the cell and slid down the bars until he was sitting on the stone floors. He looked away from Jowan and towards his companions. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

"I'm sick of running away and hiding from what I've done," Jowan said. "I want to fix it any way I can. Please, if my friendship meant anything, help me fix this."

Donal's gaze dropped from them and focused on his knees. "I can't make this decision," he muttered. "I'm too involved."

"Please, I'm begging you!" The bars stood steadfast as Jowan tried to shake them. "Won't you help me try and do one thing right in my life?"

"I say this boy could still be of use to us." As Morrigan stepped forward, the shadows seemed to dart away from her body. She stood over Donal and ignored everyone else. "But if not, then let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?"

"Hey, hey!" Alistair exclaimed. "Let's not forget that he's a blood mage! You can't just set a blood mage free!"

Anytime Alistair screamed or got angry, it sent Adele's heart pounding through her chest. She wondered if there was a way to make him behave more reserved. Or for her to recognize him as harmless. Zevran's hand was still around her wrist and he idly rubbed at her frantic pulse point.

Morrigan turned from Donal and toward Alistair. "Better to slay him?" she demanded. "Better to punish him for his choices? Is this Alistair who speaks, or the Templar?"

He twisted his face from hers, his nose in the air. "I'd say it's common sense." Alistair crossed his arms. "We don't even know the whole story, yet."

"But we do," Nema replied. She walked over to Donal and bent over to look him in the eye. "Donal, stop being pathetic and stand up."

"Please, Donal," Jowan begged. His voice began to curve up, higher and more desperate. "Don't leave my fate in her hands."

"He's your friend," Alistair told Donal. "You know him best."

"Alright." Donal stood up and dusted off the back of his robe. "Jowan, I want to let you go. It's stupid, I shouldn't, but I do. But what are you going to do if I set you free?"

"I'd..." Jowan blinked. "Well, I'd try to save anyone still in the castle. There must be something I can do."

Nema grasped the mechanism on the cell door and opened it. "I think you're right, Donal." Her nostrils flared and her words sounded awkward and uncomfortable on her tongue.

"Oh?" Donal's eyebrows shot up. "Because suddenly I am now unsure."

"Morrigan made a good point," Nema said. "Leaving him here is a waste of resources."

"What now?" Jowan asked.

"You come with us," Donal said.

Jowan hesitated, still in his cell. "I'm not sure that's a good idea." He staggered into the hallway and lifted his robe up to his knees. His ankles were blackened with dried blood and the skin was torn and inflamed. "Lady Isolde had me tortured when I wouldn't confess to the walking corpses. I'd like to help, but I'd slow you down."

"That ankle's shattered," Adele murmured.

"Sloppy work, too," Zevran replied.

"Then help," Donal said. "Just don't make anything worse."

"I won't, I promise." Jowan clapped a hand on Donal's shoulder and squeezed. "I'll find a way to fix this, somehow."

Jowan dragged his one leg behind him as he limped off down the hallway. Nema shook her head as she watched.

"Why didn't you heal him?" Adele asked.

Nema's answer was curt. "We're not healers," she said.

Donal shrugged. "The school of magic is just that," he said, "a school. And while we all learn rudimentary techniques, there are certain areas that individual mages excel or flounder in. Like Nema, there, she's a natural in the School of Power and all that primal destruction."

"And you?" Adele asked.

"Nothing," Nema said.

"Thanks, Nema!" Donal offered her a quick salute and an eye roll. "Not quite sure on that, yet. I'm just glad they didn't make me tranquil. Anyway, Jowan's a better healer than myself and I could see that he already tended to his ankle before we found him."

"So we should try to avoid injury without Wynne around," Zevran noted.

"Always a good rule of thumb," Donal replied," even with Wynne around."

Adele ducked under the cobwebs that draped support beams as they made their way to the dungeon's exit and up the stone spiral staircase that led into the castle. It felt less like a home and more like a crypt with the lack of servants scurrying about. Minstrel music drifted down the long corridors when they reached the main floor.

It was too quiet. Quiet enough for the music to softly echo, quiet enough for their footsteps to reverberate. Adele could hear the pounding of her heart, off beat with Zevran's breathing, as frantic as Donal's feet against the stone. As they entered the main hall, she was struck with how completely out of place she was there. The carpet was dyed a deep, expensive crimson, elaborate tapestries adorned the wall and the throne was covered with gilt.

It was a strange intrusion of sorts. It was too empty. It should have been filled with people more sophisticated than she was with her mixed metal engagement ring and tatty heirloom boots.

Those undead creatures were the source of the music. One plucked feverishly at a lute while Bann Teagan danced. Teagan was still alive. At least, Adele thought he was. His smile was unnaturally wide and his body jerked as if he were a marionette and someone else was in control of the strings. In the center of it all, a little boy clapped his hands and giggled. Isolde stood, her face decorated with old tears as she watched her son.

Alistair was bold enough to rush to the front, while Nema just stood back and crossed her arms. All Adele could hear was her long inhale of air as the bann cartwheeled and then somersaulted. Her heart was fighting its way out of her chest as her blood chilled her and slowed her movements.

"So these are our visitors," the child, Connor, said. The words left Connor's mouth, rather. The voice was deeper, not human, Adele wasn't quite sure what. "The ones you told me about, Mother?"

Isolde didn't look at Connor as she stammered, "Yes, Connor."

"And these are the ones who defeated my soldiers?" Not-Connor asked. Was this what Nema meant by an abomination? "The ones I sent to reclaim my village?"

"Yes!" Isolde stretched her chin upward and bit down on her lower lip.

Adele had tried that move many times to still her tears. It usually only worked long enough for her to run back and find her father. She turned to Zevran. His kind, almost teacher-like expression was gone. Now, his fingers twisted around his daggers in a firm grip as his eyes darted from the three doorways to the undead musicians that abandoned their instruments.

"And now they're staring at me!" Not-Connor bellowed. "What are they, Mother? I can't see them well enough."

Isolde turned to her son, her hands outstretched. "Connor, I beg you, don't hurt anyone!"

The boy gripped at his head and swayed. "M-mother?" His voice was soft and high. Nothing like before. Adele could see Isolde's lip tremble as she reached for her child. "What's happening? Where am I?"

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Isolde fell to her knees and crushed the boy against her chest. "Connor! Connor, can you hear me?"

It was too good, too simple. The undead creatures were posturing and clanging their swords against their shields. Connor's face contorted and he was gone in the time it took him to strike his mother in the face.

"Get away from me, fool woman!" It raged with its fists still clenched. "You are beginning to bore me."

"Maker's breath," Alistair breathed. "What has happened here?"

"Grey Wardens," Isolde said. Still on her knees, she ignored the red welt on her cheek. "Please don't hurt my son. He's not responsible for what he does!"

"Bann Teagan." Donal raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the man who sat on the ground like a discarded toy. "What did you do to him?"

"Here I am!" The bann seemed to inflate as his shrill voice bounced off the walls. "Here am I! Ha ha!"

"Right," Donal muttered.

"I like him better this way," Not-Connor said. "No more yelling; now he amuses me."

"Connor didn't mean to do this!" Isolde insisted.

There was a certain resonance to her voice. It reminded Adele of herself when she had implored Vaughn so long ago. Shianni didn't mean to do that. Nobody needed to get hurt over an accident.

Isolde hadn't bothered to get up from her knees, yet. There was a pathetic nature to her now, one that overcast her earlier regal air. Was she trying to convince them, or herself? "It was that mage!" she continued in one strained breath. "The one that poisoned Eamon- he started all of this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!"

"It was a fair deal!" The demon declared. It smiled with Connor's face. "Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

"Nobody tells him what to do!" Teagan chanted as he raised his weapon and jerked upright. "Nobody!"

"I crave excitement!" Demon-Connor pointed his finger at them. "And action! You spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village and now you'll repay me!"

He darted off through the closest exit. Adele looked back to Zevran, but he was already stalking toward the closest undead creature with a sword. With Teagan at the head, all the monsters had surrounded them while Connor had talked.

"Kill the others!" Alistair shouted. "Leave Bann Teagan to me!"

Adele swallowed and reached for her daggers. With his sword raised, Bann Teagan charged at them.


	29. Chapter 29

"Teagan!"

Lady Isolde was sobbing. Nearly all the lavish decorations in the throne room were damaged or destroyed. Blood splatters, ripped tapestries and a sword wound in the throne. Donal couldn't imagine they'd be having a party there any time soon.

The lady had her face buried into Teagan's chest plate as he laid on the floor, dazed. The bann blinked hard and then brought a hand up to soothe his hysterical sister-in-law. "It's alright," he said.

"Teagan!" His acknowledgement only seemed to intensify Isolde's tears. "Teagan, are you alright?"

Teagan swallowed. "I am better now. I think."

"I did hit you rather hard," Alistair muttered. "My apologies."

"None are needed," the bann said. "My mind is my own again."

Demons didn't get much time to play outside of the Fade. This one had to have been powerful considering that it was able to raise the freshly murdered dead. Still, Donal found it odd that it ran off the second it commanded its thralls to attack. Were fantastic displays of magic as exhausting for a mighty demon of the Fade as it would have been to the common mage? Maybe Connor's form was just fragile. As exhilarating as this world may have appeared, Donal was willing to bet spirits anchored to living vessels were infuriated by their new found mortality.

"Blessed Andraste!" Isolde pulled Teagan up to a sitting position. "I never would have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!"

Teagan dragged a hand across his face at Isolde's continued fussing. "I'm fine, Isolde," he said. "Really."

She nodded, although she didn't look entirely convinced. Isolde addressed them all, "Please!" she said. "Connor's not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!"

At what cost? An entire castle's worth of people were dead for the sake of one boy. But the way Isolde's voice carried and arched, it struck something inside Donal that he thought had been buried and long forgotten. She had come face to face with every parents' fear and was dealing with it the only way she knew how. Worlds may burn, millions may suffer, but save my child.

Donal wondered if it had been difficult for his mother to give him to the Circle of Magi? Had she cried? Did she feel regret? He didn't have a letter, a name, a keepsake. Nothing but hazy, maybe memories that now held a dream-like quality. He felt his jaw tighten down on the way his insides twisted over a mother willing to employ a blood mage and defy the laws of the land for the safety of her son.

Nema was unmoved, as was Morrigan. He'd anticipated that. He should have joined their ranks. One boy did not outweigh the lives of so many others who had already been lost. If he lived, how many more would die?

The elf girl, Adele, spoke up. "I'm not about to kill a child." Her gray eyes were round with panic, the entirety of her irises visible.

Alistair's face was washed with shame and Zevran was as mutable as ever. Donal swallowed. He never thought it would come down to him and a scared, shrinking violet to convince the good guys to not murder a child.

"Connor is no longer a child." Jowan's voice came in the direction of the main entrance to the Throne Room. The mage followed soon after, limping and dragging his shattered ankle. "He's an abomination."

"You!" Isolde was on her feet and storming toward Jowan. "You did this to Connor!"

"I didn't!"

What did Jowan expect from this, Donal wondered. His old friend flinched merely at the words the arlessa threw at him, there was no way he'd remain standing if she actually put her hands on him.

"I didn't summon any demon, I told you!" Jowan insisted. "Please, if you'll let me help..."

"Help?" Isolde's voice was raw with rage. "You betrayed me! I brought you here to help my son and in return you poisoned my husband!"

Donal glanced to the ground. He was sick of looking at Jowan, so hapless, like a whipped and confused dog.

"This was the mage you spoke of?" Teagan asked. "Didn't you say he was in the dungeon?"

"He was." Isolde didn't take her eyes off of Jowan. "I assumed the creatures had killed him by now. He must have been set free."

Nema stood, silent. Donal ground his teeth.

"That's right," he said. "And I stand by my decision."

It gave Jowan confidence. He looked to Donal and nodded. "I know what you must think of me, my lady," he said. "I took advantage of your fear. I am sorry. I never knew it would come to this."

Jowan's words did little to soften Isolde's glare. Teagan placed a hand on his sister-in-law's shoulder to silence her. "Well, I shan't turn away his help," Teagan said, his gaze directed at Isolde. "Not yet. And if Connor is truly an abomination..."

"He's not always the demon you saw." Isolde shook her head. "Connor is still inside him and sometimes he breaks through." She gripped at Teagan's chest plate. "Please, I just want to protect him!"

"Isn't that what started this?" Teagan snatched her hands up and dropped them at her side. "You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret. To protect him."

"If they discovered Connor had magic, then they'd take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then..."

Donal shrugged. "The Circle's not so bad, huh Jowan? Nema?" he muttered. "Three meals and a roof over our head. I mean some of the beds are a bit old and there's always the Templars looming, but the library is gorgeous and Master Niall tells some of the funniest jokes I've ever heard."

"Niall's dead," Nema said with a glare.

That was true. Donal had forgotten. His poor, poor Tower.

"What are our options?" Adele spoke up. Her voice was hesitant, like she half expected them to ignore her. Donal wondered if anyone had told her that her face would freeze in an expression if a body kept it long enough.

Alistair's chin dropped. "I wouldn't normally suggest slaying a child..." He paused and then forced himself to continue when he realized there was no delicate way to put it. "But he's an abomination. I'm not sure there's any choice."

"We can't kill a young boy, can we?" Adele's hands lurched up to grip her messy hair. "He's a child! We're the good guys!"

"And he's possessed by a demon," Nema replied.

"You're all mages," Adele insisted. "You know how to safeguard against this. You should know a way to fix it!"

Whispers of old Tevinter magic and a book in the library Donal wasn't allowed to touch. "The First Enchanter might know of something," Donal murmured. It had so many answers in it, that book, ones that made Irving frown, ones that made Gregoir caution against the price of exceptions. "What's it called? You know what I'm talking about, Nema. That one with all the lyrium."

Nema sighed. "The one that requires lyrium that we do not have along with several enchanters, most of whom are dead?" she asked. "If this had happened before the Circle was very nearly destroyed, it would have been foolish, but plausible."

"The Circle was very nearly destroyed?" Jowan asked.

"Yes, you destroy your phylactery and the magic guarding it will rise up and kill everyone else," Nema snapped. "Who was that girl you were asking about? Lily? Is she one of the dead, Donal?"

"Shut up, Nema!" Donal could feel heat gather in his face. "What happened in the Circle is completely unrelated to you, Jowan."

"Enough," Teagan interrupted. "Connor. What are we going to do about Connor?"

That quieted them. For the moment.

"Connor is my nephew," Teagan continued quietly. "But he's also possessed by a demon. Death would be... merciful."

Isolde's face fell, her trembling lip and glistening eyes the only weapons she had to fight against their verdict.

"There is another option." Jowan swallowed and took a deep breath. "Though I loathe offering it." His eyes darted from one person to the next, before they landed on Isolde. "A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor himself."

"We lack both the lyrium and the enchanters," Nema repeated. "Do not string the woman along with foolish hope."

"Let me finish, Nema. Please." Jowan dragged his hands across his bruised face. "The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he dreamt and controls him from there. We can use the connection between them to find the demon."

"You can enter the Fade, then?" Isolde asked. There was a hoarseness to her voice that Donal found unsettling. "And kill the demon without hurting my boy?"

"No, but I can enable another mage to do so." Jowan shot a hard glance to Nema and spoke over her open mouth. "It normally requires lyrium and several mages, but I have... blood magic."

And there it was, then. What was the price of exceptions? What was one boy worth?

Nema laughed. "Oh, Jowan. You think your word means anything at this point? Do you honestly believe we'd let you cast a spell, let alone use blood magic?"

"You forget that you're a guest in my home, Warden," Isolde said. She straightened herself up to her full height, raised her chin and stared Nema down. "When your solution is to murder my only child, the least that can be expected of you is the courtesy to not interrupt while other options are being explained."

Isolde's posturing only goaded Nema. She met the arlessa glare for glare. "You are stupidly wasting time, hoping for a miracle that does not exist, when we all know what course of action must be taken to protect everyone you selfish, self-important-"

"Shut up, Nema!"

She didn't even acknowledge Donal with a nod. "No."

Had it not been for the icy silence that enveloped everyone, they probably wouldn't have heard Adele whisper to herself, "I always wondered why humans hated elves."

Nema's glare shifted to Adele, her dark blue eyes an endless source of frozen hatred. Rage had tightened the mage's jaw and locked it shut. Worry creases marred Adele's forehead as she examined her knuckles.

"Please, Jowan," Isolde said. "Tell us what you mean."

"Lyrium provides the power for the ritual." Jowan cleared his throat. He began quietly, but gained more confidence the more he talked. "But I can take that power from someone's life energy. The ritual requires a lot of it, however. All of it, in fact."

"So, someone must die?" Teagan asked. "Someone must be sacrificed?"

Jowan sighed. "Yes." He inhaled and tried again. "Then we send another mage into the Fade. I can't enter, because I'm doing the ritual. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. It's not much of an option."

Morrigan had been silent for so long. Too long. Donal looked her way for something, anything. She seemed anxious and impatient with the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other and kept darting glances toward the exit. Of course. Why would she care about a village, a child, the Ferelden nobility? The world revolved around Morrigan and she had a mother she wanted dead. Donal counted backwards from ten.

"So either way someone dies," Alistair said.

"The power has to come from somewhere," Jowan replied. "That means either lyrium or blood."

What was the cost of one child? Who would the petty Ferelden nobility deem expendable? One of the Wardens? A villager? It was easier to calculate price and worth when Donal was adding up the shredded tapestries, frayed carpets and broken wall panels in the Tower. There was a definite, monetary value, then. How much was a pound of flesh worth?

"Then let it be my blood," Isolde said. "I will be the sacrifice."

That was unexpected.

"What?" Teagan turned to her and gripped her by the shoulders. "Isolde, are you mad? Eamon would never allow this!"

She looked so regal then, despite her bloodshot eyes and tear stained face. "Either someone kills my son to destroy that thing inside him or I give my life so my son can live." She smiled up at him and smoothed her hair back with a hand. "To me, the answer is clear."

Teagan opened his mouth, but his resolve wavered. It was difficult to argue with someone so certain.

"Connor is blameless in this," Isolde told him. "He should not have to pay the price."

"It is up to you," Teagan murmured.

She kissed his cheek. "I know, Teagan."

"No." Donal brought a hand to his head. Maybe that would make his brain work better. It was all math, wasn't it? "You need enough blood for one person, right? And we can only put one person in the Fade. Let me help."

"I don't understand," Jowan said. "What do you mean."

"I have blood, too," Donal could barely believe the words leaving his mouth. He couldn't stop now that he started. "We all do. Why kill one person? Diffuse the responsibility among us all."

"I can't guarantee that will change the outcome," Jowan said. "It may just risk you all."

Donal could punch him. "But you can guarantee that Isolde will die, otherwise."

"Please don't ask me to participate in this," Alistair said suddenly. "I can't condone blood magic."

That gave Donal pause. "No Alistair and we'll need Nema to enter the Fade, but that leaves..."

That's when he realized. As he scanned his friends, he saw Alistair's drawn expression and the near rabid fear that rolled off of Adele. Zevran dispassionately whistled and avoided anyone's gaze. Morrigan glared at Donal. He grimaced. He should have anticipated being alone.

"Right." Donal sucked in a breath of air and shuffled over to Isolde's side. "Guess it's just you and me."

"Don't be a fool," Morrigan hissed.

"My promise stands," he said. "I told you it would have to wait until we finish our business here. I'm finishing it."

She didn't like that. He hadn't expected her to. Donal gripped Isolde's hand in his. "Are you ready?" he asked. "I'm ready. No one else dies today."


	30. Chapter 30

Time moved funny when the Fade was involved. A molasses drip of emotions that one had to wade into and drag his knees through.

Donal had expected more. And when he didn't receive it, it was then he realized that he very truly had wanted so much more.

He'd fumbled with the dagger like a ponce. Unsure of which vein would yield the most blood, which one would be the easiest to cut, which one would hurt least. While he faltered, Isolde had snatched the blade from him and sank it deep into her forearm without a second thought. She knew what she was fighting for and it was more tangible to her than mere whims, fancies and higher moral ground.

Jowan had that meek smile of his and it almost made Donal want to laugh. It made him think of earlier times, of prattling on about sexual exploits and Jowan pretending to understand until he had to admit that he was still a virgin. He'd had that smile on his face then, too. The story had grown funnier with age when both men finally had enough experience between them to know just how ridiculous and impossible the original story was.

Donal let Jowan cut him. He watched his blood pool at the wound, and when it ran down his arm, he watched it defy gravity and drip sideways, toward his old friend. Glistening rivulets of scarlet. And when things grew fuzzy, Donal bit down on his lip and there was more blood. It drifted from his mouth and he forgot what he was supposed to be focusing on.

Children? Blood? Anatomically impossible sex acts? He slept and it hurt.

When Donal woke, he didn't want to wake up. His head hurt, his body ached and the stars in his vision hadn't had the time to fade. The bed was soft, better than anything he was used to, but the blankets were heavy and pinned him down. He wanted a drink of water, he wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to vomit.

He tried to say as much, but only got so far as to moan, before words fell to the wayside. It must have conveyed enough, because Donal was rewarded with a cool hand pressed against his forehead. Slender, boney fingers and a soft, clucking noise. Wynne. He was really so bad they sent for Wynne?

Jowan sat at the foot of the bed and Morrigan stood in the corner of the room like a sentry. Jowan looked old, Wynne was an angel and Morrigan was livid. Wynne kept talking to Donal, with soft, gentle words, but he couldn't concentrate. Did it work? He hadn't expected it to feel this awful.

"...time and fluids for him to replace all the blood he lost."

Time! Time heals everything! Donal tried to laugh. He hadn't been sure about it, when he suggested it, but there was an exhilarating giddiness that came with knowing he was still alive. He'd laugh and then kiss that tight expression off of Morrigan's face. She'd probably get angry, but he was too loopy to care. If she did, he'd just kiss her again.

Wynne smoothed his hair back before she stood and left the room. He could kiss her, too. It was only fair. Just as soon as he stopped feeling so miserable.

When he could forget a moment how painful everything was, Donal slept. He was vaguely aware of Jowan lighting candles and when Donal opened his eyes in earnest, they had burned down to stubs of wax on the nightstand. Morrigan was still there, in the corner of the room, her eyes level and testy. Jowan was slumped over at the foot of the bed. His snores were quiet, but they made Donal's skull rattle. He brought a hand to his temple.

"I don't think I'll be doing that again," Donal muttered.

That stopped Jowan's snores abruptly. "You're awake?" he asked. "Thank the Maker!"

"How long was I out?" Donal tried to bring a hand up to his throbbing head. It didn't feel like it was still attached to his body.

Jowan scrambled up from the foot of the bed to Donal's side. Every movement created a new thrumming agony. "A couple days now," Jowan said. "I was beginning to fear... Well, I was just afraid."

"But it worked?" Donal reached out and when he located the bed, he gingerly let his arm rest upon it. "It had better've worked with how I feel, because if it didn't, I swear to you that you can all just... something."

"Connor is safe," Jowan said. He was smiling that smile. Donal's gut clenched. "But there was a complication, Donal. A problem."

"My hands are still here. Feet? Are my legs gone? I haven't thought to feel for them." The words came out in a babbling stream. Maybe that would distract Jowan from talking. Donal didn't want to hear, he didn't like the look on Jowan's face, anymore.

"The ritual required blood. A lot of it. And you both grew so weak-"

Donal flung a hand out and frantically grabbed for his groin. "That's still there, isn't it? Oh, blessed Andraste! Does it still work? It has to still work, Jowan. I'm as good as dead, otherwise."

"Donal, please!" Jowan's voice had a hardness to it, now, an irritation. He wasn't going to let it drop until he said what he needed to. "There's nothing physically wrong with you, you git! You're fine."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"I had to make a choice," Jowan said, quieter. The way his voice ground out made something plummet deep down into the pit of Donal's belly. "I chose you, Donal."

"I don't understand..."

"You were both so weak," Jowan repeated. His eyes trailed to the extinguished candles on the nightstand. "And more blood was needed. Isolde had already said she would die for her son and I don't think you knew what you'd agreed to and I owe you so much already and I just-"

"Wait," Donal said. "What are you saying?"

Jowan looked at him and Donal realized that the bruise on the other man's cheek was gone. Sunken bags beneath his eyes had taken its place. "Isolde didn't make it, Donal."

Donal felt his head loll back. He had to take a few deep breaths and swallow hard or his entire insides were going to come up. "No. No, that doesn't make any-"

"She's dead, Donal."

"You flaming, dumb shit."

There. The patronizing, overly pained look was gone from Jowan's face. "What?" was all he managed to splutter out.

"You had a choice to save a mother, who could have been reunited with her child who needs her," Donal said. "Or you could have saved me. Me! A flipping nobody mage with no skills or ties to anyone!"

At least the pain on Jowan's face was real, now. "Donal..."

"His father might die because of you," Donal bellowed. He snapped his head upright to get a good look at his friend and was rewarded with a churning nausea for his efforts. "And now his mother's dead because of you. And to save me? All I have is a stack of books and some Orlesian pornography that'll miss me!"

"I couldn't kill you!" Jowan insisted.

"Why not?" Donal had to let his head fall back. He tried to laugh and tried to make it sound biting and not weak. "You could lie to me, stab me in the back, set me up to take the fall for your doings- why not murder? That's the next step up, isn't it?"

"Because I've done so much to you, already!" Jowan rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I knew you'd hate me for this. And I'm okay with that, because I figure you have to be alive to hate me. And maybe someday, you'll figure out a way to forgive me. Because you're alive."

Donal closed his eyes. "Go away, Jowan. I can't do this right now."

"Right," Jowan muttered. He placed a hand briefly to Donal's shoulder before he stood and left.

Donal laid a moment with his eyes closed, and soaked up the silence darkened by his thoughts. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to," he said finally.

"Of course I don't," Morrigan said.

"I appreciate it, but I'm fine." When he opened his eyes, she was standing above him. Funny how he hadn't heard her move. "I won't die, I promise."

Her nostril flared. "Of course not."

"Okay," Donal said. "Then what?"

She brought her hands up to her arms and let her eyes trail to the doorway. "Tis cold in my bed," Morrigan said. "All alone."

"And?" His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She wasn't making sense. "What do you want me to do about it?"

She had a light, little practiced laugh that didn't really sound like her at all. "Why, it just so happens that I find you quite warm."

Understanding seemed to land on Donal with the crushing intensity of bricks to the chest. "What?" he asked. "Now?"

"Well, you did seem rather concerned if it worked or not," Morrigan reminded him.

"You have got to be kidding me." It was amazing to him that when he was convinced he had nothing left but exhaustion, anger found a way to manifest and flare up. "All you tell me is how I'm not good enough from the day we met and now because I nearly die you're here to gift me with a pity piece?"

"That is not what-"

"Save it." Once he'd started, Donal found it hard to stop. "You're gorgeous, but you're not that gorgeous, sweetheart. You think I'm going to forget that promise I made? That you need to put out a little to keep stringing me along? Don't you worry, once I can walk, I'll go to the Wilds and murder my way into your good graces."

"You sniveling, little-"

"Exactly!" He could feel the heat in his face, his heart in his ears. "There are so many big things, important things that are happening, Morrigan. Completely out of our control! How's it fair that an ass like me's alive, when someone like Isolde's dead? What's the point in trying when people die even when you do the right thing?"

Morrigan stood there, staring. He'd expected her to look angry. He couldn't read her expression. Why wasn't she leaving? Her lips tightened as she swallowed whatever it was she'd wanted to say. Donal needed to sleep everything off. He closed his eyes and enjoyed that horrible quiet.

"Donal."

"What?"

"I am glad Jowan chose you over Isolde."

By the time his eyes shot open, she had already turned and headed toward the door. "Morrigan wait."

Her moment's hesitation in the doorway was all he needed.

"I'm awful company right now," he said. "I'm not really up for talking, but I was hoping to get some reading in. If you're interested."

Morrigan didn't say anything. But she turned back, made her way to the bed and sat down. And that was enough.


	31. Chapter 31

Silfee remembered Redcliffe Castle. A lifetime ago, there had been a party, perhaps it was for Connor Guerrin's Naming Day, she couldn't precisely remember the specifics or whys. All Silfee could recall was that the castle itself was beautiful and she has felt so grown up, so adult with that stupid, deep blue corset that was laced so tight she could hardly breathe.

That, and all the brandy wine Arl Eamon generously provided for his guests.

The halls were quiet, now. The only word they'd received in the village was when the elf girl, Adele, had burst into the Chantry breathless and pleaded for Wynne's help with Donal. After they left, everyone slowly migrated toward the castle and Silfee found herself wandering aimlessly down dimmed corridors. She wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for, or if she was even looking for something at all.

Her home had looked similar. The Cousland's castle had more wear and tear, courtesy of Edgar and Chester barreling down the hallways at break neck speeds, and maybe the decor wasn't as stylish, but the smells and echoes reminded her all the same. Silfee shook her head. Perhaps "stylish" wasn't the word she was looking for. Father would be polite enough to say "over-indulgent," while Mother would have directly said, "tacky." Fergus would just cough and mutter, "Orlesian." Still, the smell of the oil in lamps and the sound of her footsteps in the empty hallway took her back to a time long before the Grey Wardens and long before Ostagar.

Teagan was in his brother's room and he sat, hunched over in a chair pulled close next to the arl's bed. The only sign that Eamon, with his closed eyes and sallow skin, was alive was the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Teagan looked the same as the day they met, no new wrinkles, no stray gray hairs. Strange, that Silfee could feel so much older and he appeared the same. He didn't acknowledge her in the doorway, but she couldn't fault him that. His dark eyes were trained on his brother's every subtle movement.

"Connor is his old self," Teagan murmured. He propped his chin up on his hand as he continued to watch his brother. "He does not seem to remember anything, which is a blessing."

"Connor?" Silfee said. "I'm afraid that none of us that were in the village know what happened in Redcliffe Castle."

He didn't seem to hear her. "It's so odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things," he said. "Should Eamon recover, I'm not sure how I will tell him of all this."

"It went poorly then, I take it?" she said.

He looked at her, then, the same Bann Teagan. He tried to smile, even though there was no strength behind it. Silfee always had appreciated that about him; he was never one to forgo pleasantries even when he really had no mood for them.

"Isolde is dead," Teagan said. "Yet her sacrifice saved their son."

"...Andraste guide her," was all Silfee could manage. Peculiar that for so long she had wanted to be alone with the bann and have his attention all to herself and now that she had it, she couldn't find the words she needed. All she could think of was that awful, deep blue corset.

"Edgar told me about Oren." His eyes were back on Eamon, again. "I am so, deeply sorry."

"You mean to tell me you didn't know until now?"

"That he died?"

"Oh." And there it was, again. That awkward silence. Silfee was torn between toying with her hair or tearing it out. Instead, she stood in the doorway, no longer wanting to be there, but unable to leave.

None of her romance novels ever had anything in them about uncomfortable silences. Everyone always knew exactly what to say. Back when she was trapped in her bedroom and only allowed to walk the grounds of Highever Castle at night, Silfee had fantasized about the time when she could confront Teagan. She would scream at him and tell him exactly what kind of rube he was and he'd soak it all in and forgive her, her words because he was so taken with her.

Doubt stilled her tongue. It had all been many years ago. Teagan was too preoccupied with Eamon to take her seriously. Maybe he was over it by this point. Maybe it was a little girl's fantasies that he strung along because he was bored and because he could. He didn't ask her to sit, didn't ask her to go away and she liked to think by standing in the doorway she was trapping him there, because she felt less helpless that way.

"I did try, you know," he said finally. "In my own way."

There it was, then. It was what she had wanted, the acknowledgement. "You're going to have to explain this to me," Silfee said. "Because I don't recall hearing anything from you until these past few days. You could have been dead for all I knew."

The corners of Teagan's mouth turned up, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "It probably would have been easier on you if I had been dead."

"I didn't mean-"

"It's alright, Silfee." He reached forward and smoothed the quilt under his brother's chin. "You were a child and didn't know any better. I was an adult. I have no convenient rationalizations to excuse my behavior."

She swallowed, hard. He wasn't supposed to get any emotion out of her. She was supposed to be beyond things that happened years ago. They weren't supposed to come bubbling up through her chest, the memories pressing behind her eyes.

Maker, she had been a child. And Teagan admitted it! Maybe that's what bothered her so much; no one else admitted it. From the aristocratic circle of bitches who whispered, "whore" from then on, to Father who locked her in her room for all those months.

"What happened, Teagan?" Silfee whispered. "I kept waiting to hear from you, but you didn't say anything. Why didn't you speak up?"

She had taken to drinking penny royal tea. Guzzling it, even, until it made her sick. Still, her stomach continued to swell despite her efforts and that's when she began to use that stupid, awful corset that began all the trouble. Teagan had liked it, he said the color complemented her eyes. Did he know how she cursed his name as she had her servants pull that same corset's laces so tight the boning bruised her belly and left marks in her ribs?

Father had found out, anyway. Father always found out.

"I was in the Wilds, training with the army when I found out," Teagan said. "By the time I got back, Fergus and Oriana had already claimed the child as their own. I wanted to say something, but Eamon said I'd do more damage by it than good."

Silfee had been okay with being confined to her room. She could understand only being allowed to walk outside after the sun had set, because of her parents not wanting anyone to see her in her condition. She could understand the silly story of her being sent away to be taught by a governess in Starkhaven, even the loss of her social status in their circles would have been worth it. The problem was that through everything, she had somehow convinced herself that she'd be able to keep the baby.

The midwives took him away and wrapped him up while she delivered the afterbirth. They never brought him back.

"You should have said something," Silfee said. "You should have said something to me."

Teagan nodded. "I should have," he said. "But I was afraid."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, Silfee, I was afraid!" His voice carried in the small room. Teagan's gaze trailed away from his brother and he cleared his throat. "I was afraid. I was afraid that if I went to you, it would give the rumors weight. I didn't want to drag Oren's name through the mud. I didn't want to bring you any further shame."

She supposed they were done with pleasantries, then. Silfee swallowed. "So instead, you chose to leave me all alone." There. The words had left her mouth and in the air, it couldn't be unsaid. Teagan didn't need to know the specifics, the ruined sheets or the way her breasts had ached. It would have all been fine had she not been alone. Father wouldn't talk, Mother wouldn't talk, Edgar tried for a while, but one day he returned to her side with a split lip and then, he wouldn't talk about it, either.

When they finally allowed her to see Oren again, he was already walking and calling someone else "Mama." Silfee supposed she was fortunate in that she even knew where he was. A dirty, little secret in plain sight. Maybe if she talked about it, Father would have taken Oren away again, somewhere where she wouldn't be able to watch from afar.

So it was parties and romance novels from then on. Dresses with ruffles, idle chitchat, deep blue corsets and brandy wine. She suddenly didn't want to be in the doorway anymore.

Oren was dead. Father was dead. They were all dead and the only one currently able to enjoy the addition to the Cousland's library, made possible by a sizable "gift" from Arl Eamon, was Rendon Howe.

Teagan took his brother's hand in his. "Of all the regrets I have, you Silfee, and the way I treated you, have always weighed most heavily on my mind." He tried again at a smile as he looked at her. "I've thought many times on how I might have done things differently, but I can't undo what's been done."

"No," Silfee said. "I suppose you can't."

"I'd like to write you," Teagan said. "I know I have no right to ask, considering, but once things are finished here, I'd like to write you if you'd allow it."

"If you're going to write me, you had better write me." Silfee stepped into the room. "I will not have you making false promises, I refuse to sit around waiting for letters that will never arrive. I swear on everything, Teagan, that if you do not write me when you say you will you will never see me again."

That made him smile in earnest. "I would expect no less."

Silfee caught her breath. "Okay, then," she said. "Then you may write me." She turned abruptly and left, before she had time to dwell further on memories or time to consider the implications of what was said.


	32. Chapter 32

There was something oddly beautiful about the village of Redcliffe. Rastaban wasn't sure if it was the ingenuity of the cobbled together buildings that spilled over into the docks, or that it was that they were permanent structures. It was probably the placement. Most of the village still slept as the sun rose, so it was that sort of quiet that peacefully saturated deep into his bones. The waters of Lake Calenhad glittered with sunlight and the buildings looked almost gold for a moment as the sun climbed the sky. Rastaban liked to think that the sunrise was for him and him alone.

It was a quiet that shamefully could not last. People began to stir and so did the dragon. The qunari had begun to watch him a little closer, but aside from Sten, Rastaban was fairly certain that no one else had yet to notice his struggles.

So he sat and let his legs dangle over the side of the dock. If he had been taller, he could have dragged his toes along the water. They couldn't possibly stay in Redcliffe for very much longer. There was an itch that was making its way so deep beneath his skin that he couldn't scratch it away. They would have to travel to his people next, he was curious how many insults would be visited for the sake of diplomacy, he wondered what Marethari would say.

Come.

Unite.

On the dock of Lake Calenhad, there was nothing for him to beat his head against. Rastaban shook his head until he couldn't see straight.

Gather.

Overcome.

There was a time, that felt like an eternity ago, where Rastaban had just wished someone could step inside his head. There were things that appeared so obvious to him, the absolutes in the world, that he couldn't understand why Tamlen didn't agree or wanted to explore them further. Rastaban found himself grinning. It would seem his wish was granted, albeit with an archdemon instead of good friend.

The Calling wasn't so much a compulsion, he decided. He knew that returning to Urthemiel was a death sentence. He didn't want to join the dragon. Perhaps wardens responded to the Calling simply because they were sick of the archdemon's incessant chatter. They just wanted the Dread Wolf to shut up.

Blood.

Rastaban cocked his fist back and sucked in a breath of air. The presence of Adele's shadow prevented him from bashing himself in the temple. He exhaled and forced his hand down to his side. Appearances were important and he could always brain himself later.

"Donal woke up," she said. "I think that means we'll be able to leave, soon."

She was so soft. A wisp of a woman with pale gray eyes. If he dug his fingers into her arms, what kind of marks would it leave? "So the fool can live to be a martyr some other day," Rastaban ground out. Those weren't his thoughts, he didn't like how they danced through his skull.

Adele sat on the dock and crossed her legs. He could see the outline of pointy ears poke out from her ratty hair. "The bann has put the maleficar back in the dungeon until the arl recovers. He's asking for us to seek out miracles, now. I don't know how I feel about chasing after myths that may not exist."

The hollow of her throat was exposed. Maybe he imagined it, but he could have sworn he could see the flutter of her pulse along her neck. He could tear it out with his teeth. Rastaban glanced away from her and stared at the lake. "You didn't strike me as one to have a crisis of faith, da'len."

"I'm not," Adele said. "I mean, I don't think I am. Just, it seems kind of silly to cross our fingers and run after fairy tales when we probably have a Blight on our hands."

"We without a doubt have a Blight on our hands!"

Her eyes widened and no words left her open mouth. She breathed in and tried again, but he could feel his impatience growing. The whispers, the non-stop digging, if he could distract it, talk over it, maybe then he could postpone whatever Urthemiel had in store for him.

"You mentioned the vallaslin, before," Rastaban said. "How much do you know about them?"

Adele shrugged. "Blood tattoos, I guess. They're significant, aren't they?"

"A coming of age," he told her. "For those who have proved they are adult. The keeper handpicks a patron god or goddess that will look over us and the markings on our face reflect that god."

Rastaban stroked the line that started at his forehead and trailed down his nose. "I was so convinced that our keeper would bestow Elgar'nan's mark upon me. It came as quite a surprise when I woke and saw the symbols of Falon'Din upon my brow. It became a joke of sorts, especially after my friend Tamlen received his vallaslin. He was chosen to bear the mark of Dirthamen and that probably doesn't make a great deal of sense to you, but Dirthamen was the twin of Falon'Din."

"Rastaban?" She said his name. Yes, that was who he was. Rastaban Mahariel. No blasted dragon could take that from him. Not without a fight.

"Hmm?"

"I think this is the most I've ever heard you speak," Adele said. "Just, what I mean to say is... Why are you telling me all this?"

He wondered how much time he had left. Months? Weeks? Days? Rastaban smiled. "Hahren Paivel told me once that even when people pass on, they can live through the little pieces of themselves that they've shared with others. If you can understand the vallaslin that a Dalish wears you are that much closer to understanding that person."

She shifted to face him. Gods, her arm was so pale next to his, so breakable. He needed to keep talking. "Who was Falon'Din?" Adele asked.

"Child of Elgar'nan and Mythal," Rastaban said. He looked down, away from her face, but could still see that delicate hand. It was a test. If he could view it as a test, then he could overcome it. What would Hahren Paivel think about him sharing the stories of their gods? Rastaban liked to think the older man would have approved. "Death and fortune. That's what Falon'Din reigns over. He collected a sickly deer in his arms and carried it to the Beyond. He's been tasked with guiding the dead across the Veil ever since."

Adele was quiet enough for him to hear the hum of the dragon. "What am I then, you suppose?" she said. She laughed, then, a soft chuckle. "The deer, maybe."

"Mythal, I hope not." He laughed. At least, he tried to laugh. He hoped it sounded like a laugh.

"Rastaban?"

"Hmm?"

"You're shaking."

"I know."

Her hand was cool against the burning skin of his arm. He tried to pull away or maybe he was just shuddering. Her thumb gave long, comforting strokes along his forearm until he could will his breathing back to a normal pace.

"It's a new day," Adele said. "It will be okay."

"You can just say that," he breathed. "And sound so certain."

That made her smile. "What's the alternative?" she asked. "We're still alive. That has to count for something."

Yes, it did. He was still Rastaban Mahariel of the Sabrae Clan. The archdemon's claws may have sank deep into him, but he was still himself. Urthemiel would have him, eventually, but not today. Today he was Rastaban Mahariel and today he was determined to fight.

The sunrise was beautiful, Redcliffe Village was beautiful and the day would be beautiful. Urthemiel continued to talk and Rastaban Mahariel ignored it.


	33. Chapter 33

Frannie was glad to be on the road, again. There was a sort of bored helplessness that went along with waiting inside the Chantry for news. Traveling was both productive and procrastinating at the same time. With each day, they were closer to their destination, so there was a measurable progress, but there were no sides to pick, no people to save or damn, no life-altering situations that would twist her belly and keep her awake at night.

The most important decision that day was where to make camp and after all the other things they had all suffered, it was a welcome triviality. There had been a few suggestions and grumbles made, but when a small clearing appeared in the clump of forest, it was agreeable enough.

Tents were pitched and Rastaban wandered off by himself to collect firewood. Leliana began preparations for supper and teased Alistair about the flavors of his motherland. He just muttered something in retaliation. It was odd. Alistair had been incredibly silent since he'd returned from Redcliffe Castle. They'd banished the abomination and the village was saved, Fran had figured that they'd done well, all things considered.

Silfee was laughing more; she'd even offered to powder Adele's face. Adele declined. Nema and Rastaban had kept to themselves, not that, that was particularly noteworthy. Frannie frowned. Oghren and his booze, Leliana and her songs; nearly everyone was acting as was expected, but then there was Alistair, who just seemed off.

A shriek cut across the camp and pulled her from her thoughts. High pitched and hysterical, Oghren choked on his ale and Sten had his sword out.

Edgar Cousland clawed his way out of his tent wearing underclothes and little else. His eyes were wide and incredulous. "I don't know what they taught you in Antiva," he spluttered, "but believe me, that was in no way a massage!"

From the tent, Zevran's laughter tinkled out. Fran groaned and rolled her eyes.

In the dirt, Chester was sprawled out and he was doing his best to rip a ball of twine to shreds. Frannie gave the mabari's head a pat as she made her way over to the small cooking fire. Alistair sat on a stump of a log and stared at the pot of water as if willing it to boil.

"You know, if you watch it like that, it'll never cook," Frannie told him. "But if you turn your head away, even for a second, the whole forest will be on fire."

He nodded. "True."

"That's it?" She plopped down next to him in the dirt. "No smart comeback? It's not like you. You are Alistair, aren't you? It's not a very good impersonation if you're not."

"Curses, you've found out." He didn't smile. "I'm not Alistair at all, but the philandering rogue, Roderick Ulmsbottom."

"Alistair, what's wrong?" Frannie asked.

He turned to look at her. "Can I talk to you?" he asked. "Seriously, for a moment?"

"Sure."

"About Redcliffe," he said. Alistair dragged a hand across his cheek. "What happened in the castle, I mean."

The tone of his voice made her frown. "You've been really quiet," Frannie said. "Are you okay?"

"Lady Isolde sacrificed herself!" Color flooded to his cheeks and his voice lanced over the dull hum of the camp. "With blood magic! How could we do that?"

"Alistair-"

"We could have gone to the Circle of Magi!" he fumed. "We could have tried harder! We should have tried something that didn't involve blood magic, that's for sure."

Fran could feel her mouth twisting, not entirely sure what to do. Was just listening enough? "Is that what happened in Redcliffe Castle?" she asked.

"And you still have to ask!" He threw his head back and stared at the darkening sky. "This is the arl's wife we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?"

Frannie shrugged. "We did what we had to. I don't know what you want me to say, Alistair."

Alistair sighed. "I just don' t know why you weren't there," he said. The anger was draining out of his voice, but his jaw was still tight. "You could have done something, you could have had my back. They would have listened to you! How could they have made that decision? A woman's dead- a good woman and Donal's a hero now for helping to butcher her?"

A lot of what Alistair was saying didn't make much sense. Frannie only knew that he was deeply upset and that pained expressions didn't suit his features. "I'm sorry," she said. Frannie placed a hand on his shoulder and let it lay there limply. If it had been Leske, it would have been easy. She'd have swatted his arm and insulted his manhood. Somehow, that didn't seem quite like the right thing to do and she wasn't entirely sure if she knew how to employ a more delicate touch.

"You can't be sorry, you weren't there to be sorry!" He brought his head down to his hand and rubbed his forehead. Alistair laughed, suddenly. "Why am I yelling at you?"

Because it would be bad form to yell at Donal Amell who still weakly staggered around due to his involvement in the mess in the castle. Frannie kept the thought to herself and instead, she shrugged again. "Beats me. I've been told there's something about my look that makes it easy to scream at me."

That made him frown. "Who told you that?"

"Let's see..." Frannie counted off on her fingers. "The guards in the Diamond Quarter, all of the Merchant Quarter, my mother constantly... Oh! There was this one bartender a long time ago..."

Leske would have been laughing drunkenly by this point. Her nonsense might have even garnered a disapproving smile from Rica. Alistair's frown had deepened.

"A brand joke." She tapped the tattoo on her cheek. "You were supposed to laugh. Don't tell me that Leske was right all along and all my jokes are garbage."

"I'm sorry that I yelled at you, Frannie," Alistair said softly.

"Huh?" He should have been laughing. Everything she was doing and saying was resulting in these strange, serious looks that seemed to goad her on to new, unfound heights of idiocy. Maybe it was compassion that crinkled his brow. She hoped desperately that it wasn't pity.

"I had no right to yell at you," he said. "I was just frustrated. And an idiot."

"Yeah, well-"

"And it's criminal for you think that anyone has the right to speak to you like that just because of a silly mark on your face."

That stopped her. Frannie wished she could appreciate his sentiment. Something about the nobility of it all grated on her. Logically, what he said made sense, but Alistair just didn't understand Dust Town. It didn't matter how many dragons she killed, Orzammar would see a brand and that was that. Still, Alistair meant well.

"Old wounds," Frannie told him. "But I'm a big girl. They don't bother me anymore."

"No one has the right to speak to you that way," Alistair said.

She sighed. "Aye."

That got a half smile out of him as he turned to the cooking fire. "Leliana's been whining about how we can't make a proper Orlesian cream sauce on the road," he said. "Nothing to thicken it up with. But I think she just lacks the creativity necessary for the kitchens of Ferelden."

It was the reprieve she was looking for. The old Alistair was back. "Oh?" Fran raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know what a fantastic thickener is?" Alistair said. "Dirt. You think she'd like that? A lovely mud pie."

"Maybe you should ask her." Frannie gestured over to Leliana. The bard had taken to brushing Adele's hair while Silfee attacked the elf's face with a powder cake. Adele, for her part, looked thoroughly miserable.

"Nah." Alistair slumped back on his tree stump. "I'll get her later."

Just then, the characteristic hissing and bubbling from the pot grabbed Frannie's attention. "Water's boiling!"

"Ah! Perfect." Alistair hopped to his feet and dusted off his backside. "Now we just have to find plants, maybe. Bushes or leaves or some such that give off the semblance of vegetables."

Frannie stood up. "You're serious, are you?"

He laughed. "Of course not. I think there are some parsnips in my sack. Maybe an onion. Come on."

Frannie nodded and followed.


End file.
